


Hypnagogia

by potofsoup, RiverTam



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Dissociation, Gen, HYDRA Husbands, Identity Issues, Injury Peas, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, good guy Brock Rumlow, good guy Jack Rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/pseuds/potofsoup, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverTam/pseuds/RiverTam
Summary: Running from his handlers - and from himself - the Asset stumbles into the life of a mouthy little punk that reminds him of… someone.  He isn’t sure who.  But he’s out of options, and his programming has imprinted on this new handler whether he likes it or not.  His new handler seems nice, though, and she definitely isn’t HYDRA.  That’s something, right?Rated Teen for profanity and mild violence.  Art bypotofsoup, beta read byRenversermonmonde.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Cap RBB, and wow, this was amazing. A+ experience, will be doing again :D
> 
> Big big hugs for potofsoup, because not only did she give me three pieces of art to write from, she did _twelve more_ during the course of developing this story. Holy shit, guys. Go give her some love. She also beta read it, and without her, this story wouldn't be what it is.
> 
> And thank you to Renversermonmonde for beta reading this, giving me amazing feedback and suggestions throughout.
> 
> Since my experience is very different from Emily's, if you see something that needs to be corrected, please let me know! Thank you :)
> 
> As always, if you have any specific triggers you would like to ask me about, please don't hesitate to reach out. I'm happy to clarify.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  **Trigger warnings:**  
>  \- Mention of off-screen drug usage as part of weaning during detox  
> \- Brief mention of off-screen drug usage as part of relapse  
> \- Non-graphic violence  
> \- Mentions of parenteral (IV) feeding  
> \- Mentions of blood and injuries  
> \- Non-graphic vomiting  
> \- First aid  
> \- Panic attacks  
> \- Dissociation  
> \- Memory disorder  
> \- Programmed obedience, not abused  
> \- Struggles with identity  
> \- PTSD

The quiet splash of water around his feet accompanied the heavier, percussive thuds of wreckage crashing through the surface of the river.   He tried to walk as evenly as he could – _don’t limp, weakness will be punished_ – as he dragged the dead weight of his burden behind him.

When he released the shoulder strap, the Captain’s back flopped to the ground with a wet splat.  Slowly straightening and stepping back, the Asset watched carefully until – there. Water trickled out and the Captain drew in a labored, pained breath.

**report to base**

The Asset turned, exhaustion dragging heavily at his limbs.   Every step he took jarred the torn muscles in his shoulder, even though he kept his right arm clamped tightly to his side.

**report to base**

Grimacing as he put weight on his injured leg, he headed for the nearby trees.

**report to base**

“Stop it,” he growled, pressing the heel of his metal hand to his forehead.

**report to base**

“No.”

He froze.

**acts of defiance will be-**

“No.”   The Asset gritted his teeth and continued forward.   The handlers couldn’t punish him if they couldn’t find him.

It was time for him to become the ghost the world thought he was.

He worked his way through the city, swiping a jacket here, a baseball cap there, a wallet whenever a civilian managed to get too close.   Switching out his outer layer every mile or so, the Asset finally found his way into a secondhand store. He ducked into a fitting room with a fistful of clothes, stripped to the skin, and quickly dressed in the new outfit.   Jeans, a sweatshirt, gloves, and an olive drab jacket that tickled something in the shadowed, foggy remnants of his memory… he needed to register as unremarkable, preferably homeless.

He kept his boots.  The shoes he’d seen on the rack next to the fitting rooms were so far from mission-ready that he hadn’t even given them a second glance.

Balling up his tactical gear as tightly as he could, he tucked it under his arm and kept his head down as he pulled the curtain back to leave the fitting room.   The third backpack he laid hands on, worn and old but constructed from sturdy canvas and leather, followed him up to the checkout counter.

He carefully counted out the cash necessary for his purchase and left the store without saying a word.

No one gave him a second glance as he trudged his way deeper into the heart of the city.

***

**report to base**

Groaning in frustration, the Asset massaged his temples.   The stale air, sour odor, and uncomfortable seat on the Greyhound bus did little to ease the pounding headache that sprang on him the instant he’d seen his own face engraved in stark white on the memorial in the museum.

HYDRA’s programming lurked under the surface of his conscious thoughts, sullen and stubborn, as it insisted he comply, _compliance will be rewarded-_

The Asset dug his metal fingers sharply into his thigh.   _No compliance.  No more.  Please, no more._

The greasy teenager across the aisle gave him a strange look, but turned back to her beat-up harlequin romance novel a moment later.

He’d dug out all three of the trackers he knew were embedded in his arm, powered off of his body’s electromechanical energy.   Implants weren’t a worry; anything up to and including a bullet would eventually work its way out of his body and make its exit in a red, angry boil within a day or two of insertion.

As the bus hit a particularly large bump in the road, the Asset stifled a wince; the smaller cuts and scrapes were already scabbed over and well on their way to healing without a trace, but his right shoulder still ached and sent pulses of nausea through him every time he did so much as blink.   Two of his ribs were cracked – _three,_ his mind helpfully supplied as the bus lurched into a pothole.   He’d torn something in his left knee, judging by the shooting pain radiating from deep inside the joint.

It took all seventy years of covert ops training to keep himself walking square and steady when all he wanted to do was stagger off the bus onto Livingston Street.

Even that training didn’t help him when he turned to head north into Brooklyn and two men fell into step ten feet behind him.

He turned his attention to the first man without giving away that he’d made them.   _Six-foot-two.   Uneven, long stride.  Combat boots, tactical pants.  Possibly armed._ A quiet, off-beat _shuff_ caught his attention as he calmly drew to a stop at an intersection.   _Likely armed, pistol under the left arm._

His blood pounded in his ears and he inwardly cursed the adrenaline rush that would cost him precious skill if it came to a fight.  _Comply,_ he told his body.   _Comply.  You aren’t an amateur._

The second man was easier to read. _Heavy footsteps, slight scuff with the right heel.  Leather jacket.  Potential: two firearms._

The fake ID he’d used to buy the bus ticket must have been burned.   Either that, or his skills were slipping and he was getting rusty. Realistically, the first was more likely.   The Asset masked an angry snarl as a quiet cough in his elbow.

There was no way they’d risk attacking him in a space this crowded.

Right?

The Asset swallowed nervously as he clocked six more agents on each of the other street corners.   They all stared him down with flat, predatory eyes; their straight, steely posture and whipcord musculature was jarringly out of place among so many soft civilians.

One of the men pressed a hand to his ear and muttered into a comm when he saw the Asset watching him.

_Control the situation.  Pick your terms of engagement._   The Asset shoved roughly past a gaggle of chattering college students, planted his right boot on top of a fire hydrant, and launched himself full force at the side of a truck rolling by on the green light.   He swung himself up onto the roof and choked back a scream as he forced his abused body to flee.

Stabbing the fingers of his left hand into the roof of the truck’s cargo box just in front of a structural beam, the Asset flattened himself into a low crouch and bared his teeth as his baseball cap flipped off his head, caught by the wind.   He threw a look over his shoulder when he heard the rumble of motorcycles behind him. Three agents gave chase as they wove in and out of the honking, swearing thicket of traffic.

Gasping out a pained curse as he raised his right hand up to clip the strap on his backpack across his chest, he drew his legs up under him.   The truck coasted to a stop at a red light, and the Asset took his chance. He used the length of the cargo box as run-up, then the edge as extra leverage as he kicked out and up.

His left knee spasmed under him, and he lost critical force.   The traffic light whizzed by his outstretched hand, then he was falling-

_\- frozen hands gripping a railing, unable to hold on.  Wind battering him and plucking at his clothes.  Steve reaching for him, lips moving soundlessly, the wind stealing away his words.  His hands slip, falter, Steve lunges, then it’s ass over teakettle and into the abyss –_

The Asset crashed to the ground in the middle of the intersection, absorbing most of the impact with his left arm and shoulder.  The backpack jolted him to the side, breaking him out of the controlled roll he’d tucked into and sending him sprawling across the asphalt.

He peeled himself off the ground, ignoring the quiet, hitched gasps of pain that he suspected were coming from him.   The motorcyclists skidded to a stop to his left, a black truck squeezed out of the wall of traffic to his right, and HYDRA foot soldiers wormed their way through the crowds of half-interested New Yorkers.

_I can’t- I_ won’t _be taken.  No._

**report to base**

_“No!”_ he roared, wishing that he hadn’t lost all his guns and knives when he’d done a swan dive into the river after the ghost of a memory.   “I won’t go back!”

“Take a deep breath, Soldier,” one of the motorcyclists started, and the Asset lunged for him, snapping his neck before he could finish.   He kicked the dead man off the bike, spun it around, and gunned it at the nearest wall of people. Something pinched in his ribs on the right side – _that’s weird, the broken ribs are on the left_ – as he kicked the rear tire out and skidded his way through a corner.

He ran red light after red light until he finally came across what he needed.

Stabilizing the bike as much as he could, he gingerly hopped up so he was crouching on the seat, ripped open the throttle, and launched himself at another passing truck.

He swung himself into a bed of… fruit.   A flicker of disgust crossed his face, followed moments later by a loud crash and the frantic honking of horns… as if that would fix anything.

Fatigue and overuse shuddered through his bones as he lay there in a squished bed of something sweet-smelling, but the Asset couldn’t let himself fall asleep.

What felt like an eternity later but according to his internal clock was only about twenty minutes, the Asset felt the truck sway gently under him as it pulled into a side alley.   He forced his aching bones to get up and half-fell, half-stumbled out of the truck.

The scent of the fruit clung to him as he staggered further into the alley, ducking behind a dumpster just as the truck driver got out.

Apparently, there wasn’t anything remarkable about the man-shaped dent in his produce, so the driver conducted his business and went on his way in a matter of minutes.   The Asset allowed himself a small sigh of relief, before he-

**report to base**

“Godfuckingdammit.”   He banged his head softly twice on the hard metal of the dumpster, then lurched to his feet and stood there, hunched over and barely conscious, before picking a direction at random and shambling that way.

At the first apartment building he came across, he dragged himself up the fire escape until he found a cozy little studio containing more books than he’d ever seen before.   He picked the lock on the postage stamp balcony easily – _make sure you can do this in your sleep, punk, you’ll never know when it could save your life out here –_ and let himself in.

After he pulled the curtains across the windows and slowly, painfully swept the place for any bugs (the refrigerator got two checks because it was just that noisy and old), the Asset made his way into the cramped bathroom.   He wedged himself past the door that abruptly refused to open further when it contacted the toilet, and finally, _finally_ closed himself into a tiny little box of quiet.

The face that stared at him from the pitted, peeling mirror didn’t feel like his.

It wasn’t his, he knew.   It belonged to a man that was long since dead and gone.   He was just… a squatter. A squatter in a house with some of the books and records and pictures left behind.

He stripped out of his new-used- _just wear them, punk_ clothing to triage his wounds.   One of the shirts he purchased quickly got cut into strips with the tiny nail scissors in the medicine cabinet; he bound his ribs in place the best he could with the makeshift bandages.   The sluggish red stain that spread across the back of the bandages didn’t warrant a second look; where _wasn’t_ he bleeding from?

The Asset wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – let himself flinch when he roughly swiped rubbing alcohol over the bloodied, torn skin on his knuckles and face.   He slowly loosened up the caked-on, coagulated brown smears that had stubbornly resisted a quick rinse in the bus station bathroom sink, and eventually the sharp, biting sting of the brown-stained, alcohol-soaked tissue across his skin faded into a numb nothingness.

After a brief internal struggle, the Asset cut the pants of his tactical uniform into wider strips, then did his best to stabilize his knee.   His shoulder would have to heal on its own – there wasn’t much he could do for the protesting joint that had put up with far more than it ever should have.

He dressed slowly, carefully, pulling his clothes on with exaggerated care to avoid jarring his wounds any more.   When he walked back out into the main room of the apartment, he knew he couldn’t stay long, but… the temptation to lie down and get a few hours’ sleep was immense.

Judging by the tidy calendar of work shifts and appointments taped to the wall next to the ancient refrigerator, the apartment’s occupant wouldn’t be back for several more hours.

Exhaustion won out over caution, and the Asset slowly sank to the floor in the corner of the room, leaned his head up against the wall, and closed his eyes.

He opened them again in time for a thin, wiry young woman lift up a hand to unload a can of pepper spray directly into his face.

***

Emily grumbled into her hands as she sat at yet another green light waiting for the cross traffic to clear the intersection.   She swiped and tapped around on her phone until Twitter came up and… yep. Another traffic incident. Something clogging up the lanes all the way into the heart of Brooklyn.   A car chase of some sort. Police vehicles? Was that a SWAT team in the picture?

She barely registered the annoyed honk from the cars behind her as the taxis to either side finally began moving.   Kicking forward, she stuck her feet back on the pedals of her bike and began the slow slog forward to the next arterial clog of cars.   As much as she didn’t like being late with her deliveries, there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it, not today. Everyone was still on edge after the baffling attack on DC the day before.

If anything, the general mood – stunned and horrified – reminded her of when the Towers came down so many years ago.

Keith opened his door right as her knuckles first tapped the worn wood.   He grinned up at her from his wheelchair. “Hey, Emily!”

“Man, I am _so_ sorry about that.   Traffic, you know.” She unzipped her big red I Am A Food Delivery Person bag and fished out his dinner.   “Something happened over in-”

“Yeah, that weird car chase.   The conspiracy theorists are already going bugnuts; they think it’s that crazy dude with the mask from the highway attack in DC.”   Trading her a fistful of ones for his food, Keith gave Emily another smile that faded quickly.

His eyebrows drew together and he patted her on the arm before rolling himself back a few inches.   “Take care of yourself, though, kid, you hear me? There’s a lot of weird shit goin’ on right now and I don’t want to get a new go-fer.”

Emily heard the hidden plea in his words; as a veteran, Keith dealt with demons that she couldn’t even imagine.   Routine was important for him.

“I’ll do my best,” she promised, tucking the tip into her back pocket.   “The strike at the library should end next week if the board agrees to everything, so… hopefully I’ll be able to go back to work soon.  Won’t have to work delivery for anyone but my regulars after that.”

“Hopefully.”   Keith tossed her a lazy salute and nudged his door shut.

One more delivery to the single mom in the apartment complex next to hers, and Emily was done for the night.

She locked her bike to the water pipe running up the wall of the underground garage, then allowed herself a heavy sigh as she started up the stairs.

When she got to her door, she absently fished through her keys until she found the right one, then jimmied it back and forth in the lock until she hit the sweet spot and the cylinder finally turned.   A steaming, unnaturally-orange bowl of mac-n-cheese was calling to her from its box in her tiny pantry. Netflix and Chill with her boyfriend Kraft.

Pressing down on the ancient, worn-smooth tab above the handle, Emily hip-checked the door open and tossed her delivery bag onto its usual hook on the wall.   She got one shoe off before she got the strange feeling that something wasn’t right.

Emily slowly removed her other shoe and scanned her tiny studio with the same practiced eye that could spot a book out of place during her reshelving shifts at the library.   The curtains were drawn, her bathroom door was wide open instead of barely ajar, and…

There was a man.   He’d slumped to the floor at some point, leaving an odd streak of _oh God is that blood_ on the wall.   He wasn’t conscious, but the tiny rise and fall of his ribs sent a strange, terrified relief through her.   At least she wouldn’t have to answer any questions about why there was a dead white guy in her apartment.

Something smelled like… plums?

She quietly worked her keys around until she found what she was looking for, then uncapped the small can and gripped it tightly.   Stepping forward as silently as she could, she tried to get a better look at his face.

He looked… malnourished.   Decidedly underfed. A few days’ scruff covered his cheeks and jaw, and what she could see of his skin looked bloodless and waxy.   A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and even asleep as he was, his right hand shook with a disconcerting tremor.

The man’s eyes snapped open and stared sightlessly at her feet for a few seconds before slowly sliding up to her face.   He didn’t really seem to see her though; it almost looked as if he was still asleep in there somehow. When he made to push himself up off the floor, his shining, silver left hand slid into view, and blind panic blazed through Emily.

The man – _it’s the dude from DC oh God oh God I’m going to die_ – recoiled and cried out as pepper spray covered his face.  His attempts to wipe away the capsaicin only made it worse. He lurched to his feet, gagging and gasping for breath, left arm swinging wildly for balance, something to grab onto.

Without thinking, Emily lunged for the baseball bat she kept next to her bed, wound up like it was her season final softball game, and beaned the man in the head with everything she had.

He dropped like a rock and lay there, unmoving and sprawled in a position that couldn’t _possibly_ be comfortable when he woke up.

_Call the cops.  I have to- no. Wait.  Shit. Can’t call the cops.  Bad idea. What if they’re like SHIELD?_

“Ohgodohgodohgod-”   Emily’s eyes fixed on the two ragged, bloodstained holes in the back of his jacket.   “Uh… bandages. Shit.” She dropped the bat and nearly tripped over it in her haste to wedge herself through the bathroom door and grab the first aid kit.

“I am _so_ sorry, random creepy dude,” she muttered as she dragged his jacket and shirt up over his back.   He already had makeshift bandages circling his ribs, and Emily had to cut these away to get to the source of the bleeding.

The medical tape wouldn’t stick to his skin past the blood residue, and Emily swore at herself, then dug through the little red Walmart box until she found some alcohol swabs.   “God, I hope I’m doing this right. I do _not_ wanna get sued for letting you die in my apartment.”

As the man took a shallow half-breath, something glinted under the blood in one of the entry wounds.   After stifling a few gags, Emily stuffed her hand under him and felt around for exit holes – there had to be some, unless the bullet was still in his body, right?   _God, please let Grey’s Anatomy be as realistic as it pretends to be.  Sterilize the thingy. Weird looking tweezers. Okay._

She nearly yacked while she worked on digging out the bullet she could see.   As soon as it squelched free, she dropped it onto the cheap Pergo floor and rolled her eyes to the ceiling so she didn’t have to stare at the horror show under her hands.   The thick, coppery scent of blood filled her nose no matter what she did, and she knew she’d be scrubbing herself raw for the next week to get rid of the feel of this dude’s blood on her skin.

It was hard to tell if the thing the tweezers hit in the second hole was a bullet or _please don’t let that be a rib, I don’t need to vom right now._

Three sickening minutes later, the other bullet clattered to the floor and Emily launched herself over to the kitchen sink to puke up everything she’d ever eaten.   Once the shaking subsided, she walked over to her still-motionless, impromptu patient. Some trial and error finally let her tape a likely unnecessary number of gauze pads on his back, and she paused for a moment before awkwardly tugging his shirt back down.

She only made two attempts to drag him out of the middle of her floor before she gave up, sopped up as much as she could of the blood that wasn’t underneath him, and then nervously prepared herself that box of mac-n-cheese she’d been craving since noon.   

Emily retreated to the corner of her bed furthest away from the strange man with the metal arm, curled protectively around her bowl of processed not-quite-food, and waited for him to wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

Emily jolted awake when she slid sideways and barely caught herself before she brained herself on the nightstand.  She froze, looked around her dark apartment-

Dark.

Someone had turned out the lights.

_Oh God.  He’s going to kill me.  I’m going to die._

Slowly, _very_ slowly, she reached up and tugged the chain on the little lamp on her nightstand.  The rough crunch was almost deafening in the tense silence of the apartment, and the room gradually grew brighter as the cheap fluorescent bulb warmed up.

The man was gone.

A quick check in the bathroom with her trusty bat in hand told her he wasn’t hiding in there, and the rickety Craigslist Special wardrobe wasn’t even big enough to fit her, so…

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the corner he’d been sleeping in when she came home.  The smear of blood across her Rental White hodgepodge paint had been wiped away somehow, removing any last trace left behind after her cursory attempt at cleaning.  Her floor was spotless as well.

_Please tell me I didn’t imagine that.  I can’t afford a shrink._

The trash under her sink where she’d stuffed all the used-up first aid stuff was empty, too.  Her first aid kit was fully stocked, neatly organized, and tucked back into its drawer in the bathroom.

_I’m not going crazy.  I can’t be going crazy._

The aluminum bat clunked as it rolled across her floor; Emily stumble-ran to her laptop and booted it up.  Someone had leaked a stupidly large amount of classified data during the DC attack. That man had to be in there somewhere, right?

Four hours later, the sun was peeking its way through her curtains and all she’d found was a codename and a list of confirmed kills… and Googling ‘is the winter soldier real’ quickly landed her into a series of conspiracy theory rabbit holes that she nope-nope-noped her way out of before her brain melted.

Frustrated and unnerved, Emily set her alarm for a few hours’ sleep and didn’t make it under the blankets before she passed out.

***

Nestled in the shadows of the large bulkhead enclosing the roof’s access stairs, the Asset watched the sunrise with gritty, tired eyes.  His back itched from where the girl downstairs had dragged out his unwelcome passengers; the inexpert surgery had done more harm than the gunshots themselves.  Nevertheless, the Asset couldn’t say he preferred the alternative of waiting for the bullets to ooze their way out on their own. Every time he breathed, his right lung pinched disconcertingly; no blood came up when he forced himself to cough, but he limited himself to shallow, controlled breaths nonetheless.

A fresh change of clothes, as close a shave as he could get with a disposable razor in a public bathroom, and a sturdy knee brace made him feel significantly more… maybe not _human,_ but something closer to it.  He’d left cash behind matching the price tag stuck to the knee brace’s packaging.  Hopefully the store wouldn’t investigate the overnight theft.

The Asset adjusted the brace around his knee, hissing when he jarred the torn ligament causing the majority of his mobility problems.  He’d be favoring it and waiting for his body to knit itself back together for at least a month, maybe more if he couldn’t find a way to keep food down.

The half-digested remnants of a quickly purchased meal had dried to a crusty tan on the opposite corner of the tenement’s roof.  Scrunching his eyes shut, the Asset tried to massage his stomach past another jarring pang of hunger. Dehydration would stop being a problem as soon as he found a reliable, safe source of water.  Food couldn’t be anywhere on his radar until he had a place to hide.

The black brick of a phone in his pocket buzzed and chimed at him; he dug it out, scrolling down the cheap plasticky screen to read the latest data logs from the bug he’d installed on the girl’s phone.  Her alarm had just gone off, dismissed by the tap of a button.

Twenty minutes passed before the next alert came through; job board app, email, food delivery service, different job board app, texting, Facebook, a third job board app, and finally back to the food delivery service.

The Asset couldn’t help but wonder if the income from… DoorDash, apparently, was enough to afford the rent on her small sliver of the city.

**report to-**

“No, goddammit,” he growled.

**-handler**

The Asset squeezed his eyes shut, then rubbed at them.   _Well, that’s new._

**maintenance required**

“Figured that one out myself, thanks.”

**report to handler**

Groaning, he thunked his head a few times against the wall behind him.

His phone chirped at him again as the GPS location on the girl’s phone began updating.  Scuttling to the streetward side of the building, the Asset peeked over the edge to see the girl walk her bike onto the sidewalk, swing a leg over, and start pedaling north.

Swearing under his breath in Russian, the Asset scooped up his backpack and clipped his chest strap in place.  He eyed up the gap between the tenement he was lurking on and the one next to it, scuffed back a few steps, then launched himself forward into an off-balance run.

He hit the neighboring roof in a roll, coming to his feet smoothly despite the metal contraption encircling his knee.  Thankfully, the girl didn’t travel far, and while she waited for her first order of the day to be completed, the Asset shimmied down the backside of the restaurant.  He pulled on a pair of gloves, then flowed from one shadow to the next with the ease of instinct until he was out of the alley. By the time the girl got back on her bike, he was on the other side of the street and watching her carefully.

On their way to her customer, the Asset swiped another hat from a pedestrian and a pair of black plastic-rimmed glasses from the display outside an optometrist’s office.  The glasses sat heavily on his face, pressing on the bridge of his nose in a way that was… almost pleasant. Familiar. After so many years with goggles shielding him from the world, the glasses soothed an itch he hadn’t known was there.

As soon as the felt hat settled into place on the crown of his head, he had to blink rapidly to clear the disorienting not-pressure of ghostly electrode plates oozing out of his memory.  He took the hat off, eyed it warily, then dropped it as inconspicuously as he could at the first available opportunity.

Another woman’s pocket gave him a few wadded up twenty dollar bills and a thin black band that he had no idea what to do with.  While the girl from the apartment delivered her food and chatted with a young woman and her waist-high son, the Asset stared at the elastic band with a thoughtful frown on his face.

“It’s for your hair, honey,” a young man… boy… male person of indeterminate age said distractedly as he pushed by the Asset to get to the street corner.

The Asset quickly scanned the other man’s head, looked at a few more people to increase his sample size, and tentatively twisted his long hair up into a ponytail.

He felt exposed, stuck on a microscope slide for all the world to see, but he’d never had his hair tied back while…  Suffice to say, he was fairly sure he’d be harder to recognize this way.

The girl he was following stepped away from her customer’s door, a smile on her face.  She tapped idly at her phone for a few minutes, scrunched up her nose and pursed her lips, then hopped back on her bike and started heading vaguely east.

Sighing, the Asset ignored the sparks of pain from his knee every time he put weight on it, and increased his speed to keep up with her better.

He followed her through the city for several hours until she finally coasted to a stop in a tiny little strip of a park.  The Asset’s stomach growled pleadingly as the girl tugged a plastic-bagged sandwich out of her delivery bag.

**report to handler**

“Ugh.  Shut up.”

One of the pedestrians walking toward him glanced up from her phone and raised an eyebrow, but quickly dismissed the Asset as unworthy of her valuable attention.

He did his best to keep his stride even as he walked over to the park.  A quick scan of the surrounding area gave him camera locations, visibility angles, and blind spots.  After a moment’s consideration, he chose a tree in one of the blind spots and hoisted himself up with his left arm.  It didn’t take long to settle into a comfortable position where his face wouldn’t be easily visible on the ground but could still watch as necessary.

**report to handler**

The Asset pushed his stolen glasses up and rubbed his left hand over his face.  “Oy vey iz mir.” The words tasted strange in his mouth, but the pattern was oddly familiar.  He decided to dismiss it for a different time and focus on the girl on the-

She wasn’t on the bench anymore.

Half-sitting up in surprise, the Asset quickly scanned the park.  He allowed himself to breathe when he saw her walking towards a basketball court full of kids, then choked on air when he noticed the set of her shoulders and the fists clenched at her sides.

He couldn’t hear much more than the general sound of voices, as far away as he was, but he wouldn’t give up his position unless absolutely necessary.

The girl threw her arms out to either side and yelled something angrily at a tall, lanky boy that towered over her.  With a startlingly wide grin, the boy reached out and shoved her back by the shoulder. She stumbled a few paces, then drew herself up and stepped forward again.

**protect handler**

“You have _got_ to be kidding me right now.”

**PROTECT HANDLER**

The Asset growled wordlessly and swung himself down from the tree.  He landed heavily and took a quick hop-step to the right to catch his balance, then looked back up at the scene unfolding on the basketball court.

Allowing himself to limp enough to be instantly read as non-threatening, the Asset walked his way over to the basketball court cursing the stupid programming in his stupid head and stupid punks picking stupid fights and _argh._

Ten sets of eyes turned to stare at him, and he scuffed his feet as he stopped at the sideline.  

“You got something you wanna say, crackerjack?” the tallest bully asked, head cocked to the side as he tossed the basketball from hand to hand.

Three young boys, two girls, middle school age.  Cuffed jeans, creases and dotted lines showing off how many growing children they’d clothed.  Too-large jackets, t-shirts with holes worn in the hems. The smallest boy stared longingly at the basketball as if it were the most valuable thing in the world - and that’s when it all clicked together for the Asset.

He sized up the four high school age boys on the other side of the court.  Tall, lanky, sprouted up like beanstalks, but still waiting on growing sideways to match.  The tallest of them could look the Asset in the eye, even if he could snap the boy in half like the toothpick he resembled.  Marginally better clothes, but not by much. Two of their faces were covered in the telltale constellations of teenage acne.

The girl stared at him from the center of the court, eyes wide and eyebrows pinched together.  Her lips were tightly pursed and stood out in pale pink against the darker tone of her skin. She didn’t seem terribly happy to-

**protect handler**

Ignoring the programming throwing a hissyfit behind his eyes, the Asset gave the tallest bully a shark-like grin.  “Nah, this just looks like it’ll be interesting.” He turned to the younger kids. “Mind if I join you?”

Confused silence greeted him, then one of the younger girls asked, “Do you know how to play?”

“I think so,” the Asset carefully admitted.  “But it’s been a while.” _Mission parameters unclear._

**protect handler**

_SHUT UP,_ he yelled back at the static in his head.

Before he knew what was happening, the preteens had shoved him into the center of the court and suddenly he had a large, orange-brown ball in his hand.  The rough texture of the worn-smooth nubs grabbed at his glove as he brushed his right hand over the surface.

_“It ain’t that hard, boychik.”  Arnie smiles, holding out the strangest dark orange ball he’s ever seen.  “Just drop it, and hit it back down when it bounces. Give it a try.”_

The Asset blinked tightly and he was back on the court in Harlem, in the glaring mid-day sunshine with a bunch of kids staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Well,” he said, then cleared his throat.  “As long as the rules ain’t changed since 1935, I’m okay.”

***

Emily side-eyed the man as he stood there gripping the ball like his life depended on it.  He stared glassy-eyed at the textured rubber for several seconds after his off-balance quip about his age, then visibly shook himself.

Popping the ball up into the air, he caught it on the tip of his finger and let it spin for a few seconds, then rolled it across his arms and caught it again in both hands.  “So… we doin’ a shootout, or HORSE, or…?”

The tallest high schooler crossed his arms and tilted his head to the left.  “Every hoop, kid from the other team’s gotta leave the court. Tiny Tim wants his ball back, he’s gonna have to _win_ it back.”

Tiny Tim sniffled and wiped at his nose, staring up at Emily with huge, brown, trusting eyes.

She squared her shoulders and looked back up at the man she still wasn’t convinced she wasn’t hallucinating into existence.  After a quick glance her way, he shrugged and gently tossed the ball over to Emily. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re confident,” she grumbled.  The last time she’d played basketball, she’d been wearing a PE uniform and had braces on her teeth.

She passed the ball over to one of the kids to start off the game, and sidestepped her way around a high schooler.

As scrappy and agile as the younger kids were, they couldn’t do much when a taller teen got the ball and gleefully held it up out of reach.  That ended fairly quickly, though, when the Winter Soldier apparently decided he’d had enough.

The tallest bully snagged the ball mid-pass, then just stuck his arm straight up in the air and laughed as Tiny Tim fruitlessly jumped for it.  Emily was mid-step toward them to get the _goddamn teenager_ to _knock it the hell off_ when the Soldier just up and materialized behind the bully.

He tapped the bully on the shoulder, and when the teen turned around to face him, his lips split in an unnerving grin.  “Boo.”

Reaching up, he palmed the ball with one huge hand, drew his arm back, and lobbed it toward the other end of the court.  It sailed cleanly through the basket with a soft shuff.

He cocked an eyebrow and pointed to one of the high schoolers, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Emily managed to derail a back-and-forth with two of the remaining teens tossing the ball over the head of one of the younger girls.  She jumped, snagged the basketball mid-air, blinked at it a few times, then took off down the court. The cheers of the kids on her team followed her.

She skidded to a stop, eyeballed the hoop, pulled her arm back, and let it fly.

The ball thunked against the backboard and bounced off the inside of the hoop before tumbling to the ground _without_ going where she’d told it to.

“Are you serious right now?” she demanded as she scooped up the ball and scowled at it.  She passed the ball over to a high schooler because hey, rules were rules, and her frown deepened when she saw the Soldier chuckling quietly.  “Oh, and you can do better?”

He smirked at her and did that strange hop-step-shuffle he had to use with his left knee mostly immobilized.  “Get the ball over to me and I will.”

One of the teens unwisely took that as a challenge, dribbling up to where the Soldier calmly guarded the basket on the kids’ side.  They hadn’t been able to get the ball past his long arms yet, and determination lined the teen’s face as he approached.

“See, your footwork’s all wrong,” the Soldier pointed out mildly, gesturing to the teen.  “Spread out your stance, slugger, you’re just gonna trip over your own feet like that.”

“The hell do you know about basketball?  You don’t _belong_ here.”

The Soldier rolled his eyes, reached down, and flicked a switch on his brace.  He caught Emily’s eye, then subtly motioned her further toward her right and down the court.  After shifting his weight back and forth a few times, he bent his knees and grinned at the teen.  “Come on, then.”

Emily couldn’t help but notice the barely-there tension in his eyes, or the wince every time he put his weight on his left knee.  His right shoulder clearly gave him trouble as well; he kept his arm close to his side, limiting the amount of movement needed from his shoulder.

Even so, it was mesmerising to watch him dance back and forth, guarding the teen in front of him with an ease and awareness that belonged on a real court.

The teen tried for a overhead shot that would arc well up into the air before hopefully coming down through the hoop.  With a quiet grunt, the Soldier leaped up into the air after the ball and snagged it, slinging it Emily’s way before he even touched the ground again.  He staggered slightly as he landed, then shooed Emily onward when she just stood there staring at him.

The shot wasn’t clean and it rattled loudly against the hoop, but she managed to sink it through this time.  When she pointed at the tallest boy, the bully that stole the ball in the first place, he leered at her before storming off the court.

After that, there wasn’t any pretense of fun anymore.  The teens used every cheap trick in the book to advance the ball, and every time the Soldier batted them back, they’d mutter to themselves.

A lucky basket from the older girl on Emily’s team whitted down the teens again, and the remaining boy paced like an angry lion as they lined back up.

The next minute was a blur that rapidly faded from memory until one second, Emily was jogging backwards down the court and the next she was blinking up at the floating sparkles dancing across the sky above her.

“Shit,” someone said, then the Soldier’s face popped into view.  He waved a hand in front of her eyes, and visibly relaxed when she blinked a few times.

“...th’ hell happ’n’?”

He glared at someone she couldn’t see and his upper lip pulled back in a snarl.  “Bobby McDermott here thought it’d be funny to use your head as target practice.”

Emily rolled her head to the side, then immediately wished she hadn’t.  The kids, teens and preteens alike, stood awkwardly staring at her as she sprawled gracelessly across the concrete.

The Soldier pinned the teens with another steely glare, then turned back to Emily.  “Look at my finger, don’t move your head.” He held up his index finger and moved it slowly back and forth across her field of view, then nodded as if satisfied.  “Okay, let’s get you sitting up.”

As soon as she tried to move, the world tilted sideways and Emily’s stomach flipped over.

“Easy, easy,” the Soldier muttered quietly, then added something in another language she didn’t understand.

“Ow.  Jesus.”  Emily pressed one hand to her head and the other to her stomach; something pressed up against her shoulders and it took her a moment to realize the Soldier was holding her upright.

“Alright, I need you to tell me your name and the date.”

“...what?”  She turned to look at him and winced when her head throbbed.

“Concussion check.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Rubbing at her eyes, Emily couldn’t help but lean into the firm hand against her shoulder.  “Emily Dixon, and… fuck.”

“Language,” the Soldier said absently.  “Also, pretty sure that ain’t the date.”

“I dunno, I use my phone for that shit.”

He shot her a sideways, disapproving glance, then shook his head.  “We should probably get you to a doctor, you hit your head pretty hard.”  Even though he spoke to Emily, his eyes were fixed on the teens.

“You nudniks just had to pick on the little guy, huh?” he growled.  “The hell is _wrong_ with you kids?  Someone got hurt!”

Ignoring the wide-eyed stares from the kids, the Soldier helped Emily to her feet and steadied her when she swayed to the side.  “We _really_ need to get you to a doctor.”

“Don’ got insurance,” she mumbled past the cotton in her head.

The Soldier scoffed quietly and shook his head before turning to the kids still scattered around the court.  He stalked over to the teen still holding the ball and yanked it out of his unresisting hands. “Next time you boys wanna pick a fight, pick it with someone your _own_ damn size.”

After handing the basketball back to Tiny Tim, the Soldier leveled the tallest bully with a flat, unnerving gaze.  “Go on and skedaddle before you get your asses kicked by a bunch of munchkins again.”

As he walked back over to Emily, the high schoolers skulked away and the younger kids simply stared at the Soldier.  He ignored them completely as he lifted Emily’s arm up around his shoulders. “Come on.”

Squinting up at him as he helped her over to the bench she’d left her bike leaning against, Emily grumbled in her throat.  “You for real?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”  Once she was seated on the bench, the Soldier stood in front of her with his hands on his hips.  His eyebrows knitted together as he studied her, then he sighed quietly. “But I do have a favor to return.  You helped me.”

“I pepper sprayed you, then brained you with a baseball bat.”

“I’ve had worse.”  Waving a hand dismissively, the Soldier turned away and scanned the park.  His eyes flicked through a pattern that Emily couldn’t quite track well enough to figure out.

“Yeah, speakin’ of which…”  Emily pointed to the brace on his leg when he looked back at her.  “Your knee. It looks like it hurts. You sure you should’ve been jumping around like that earlier?”

“Pain is within acceptable mission parameters,” he replied flatly, then turned away.

Emily squinted up at him again, then shook her head.  “There’s somethin’ wrong with you, buddy.”

“Yeah, you want the list alphabetically or by general category?  Listen, we gotta go get you home or something, if you won’t go see a doctor.”

Groaning, Emily shook her head, then immediately regretted it when down decided to be off to the left for a few seconds.  She didn’t know anything about this man other than what he looked like, his codename, and a disturbing list of… she wasn’t sure whether to call them targets or victims.

On the other hand, he’d cleaned up his own blood, restocked her first aid kit, and even locked the door behind him on the way out.  He’d had his chance to add her to that list of his when she fell asleep with a wanted assassin unconscious on her floor.

_This is why Dad used to lecture you about self-preservation instincts, Em-em._

“Hokay.” She lurched to her feet and took a step toward her bike, then caught herself on the back of the bench.  “Whoa.”

The walk home was a blur of pedestrians, stoplights, and the Soldier’s careful attention as he made sure she didn’t trip on those slippery yellow bumps at each curb ramp.

Emily chose to ignore the fact that he obviously remembered where she lived in favor of taking some time to really _look_ at the guy that was supposedly the ghost story of the spy world.

His eyes never stopped moving, checking windows and corners and people as they made their way through Harlem.  Once, he caught a reflection in the window of a bodega kitty corner across the street and his jaw tightened.

“Everything okay?” Emily asked him.

“We’ve got two men tailing us.”

She grunted eloquently in response.

“They’re about a hundred feet back, and I can’t tell if they’re armed.”  He spoke in a low murmur, barely loud enough for her to hear. “I don’t think they’ll approach us, but… you may need to run if they do.”

“I’m not gonna be running anywhere anytime soon, buddy.”  Emily winced as the reflection of sunlight on a car window lanced through her head.  “You sure about these guys?”

Muttering something under his breath in the same foreign language as before, the Soldier shifted his arm around Emily.  “We’re going to stop at the next cross-street. I’m going to point out a restaurant and I want you to turn and look at it.  When you do, look behind us on the sidewalk for two white men, six-foot-two and five-eleven. The taller one has brown hair, and contusions and lacerations on his face.  The shorter one is blond with a crew cut. They’re wearing leather jackets and jeans.”

When she did as instructed, the Soldier kept talking quietly in her ear.  “That’s Agents Jenkins and Murphy. They’re on the list of casualties from the collapse of the Triskelion.  They’re supposed to be in DC, and they’re also supposed to be _dead.”_

“They don’t look dead to me,” Emily shot back as they started walking again.

“And I thought I was a human cockroach.”  The Soldier pulled a face. “I don’t know if they’ve seen me yet.”

“God, this is like those bad spy thrillers in the downstairs book stacks.”

He gave her a weird look.

“I’m a librarian, so sue me.”

Huffing out a quiet laugh, the Soldier steered her around a street corner.  “Well, that explains your search keywords, then.”

“My what.”

“I cloned your phone,” he said nonchalantly, then startled and hissed in pain when she nailed him in the ribs with a fist.

“Haven’t you ever heard of _privacy?_  Christ on a popsicle stick, you _asshole._ That was - why?”

“So I could follow you more easily.”

Emily just stared at him and didn’t move when he tried to pull her forward again.  “You and I, mister, we are gonna have a _talk_ about this.”

“Later, when I’m not worrying about camera angles.”  His eyes darted around them. “I’m an international fugitive right now.  Let’s _move.”_

Emily didn’t say another word to him until they got up to her door and she dug her keys out of her bag.  She grumpily stuffed her key into the lock, then blinked in confusion when it rotated smoothly and easily.

“I fixed the loose pin,” the Soldier mumbled.

With a quiet groan, Emily rubbed at her forehead and let them into her apartment.  The Soldier unclipped that silly little strap across his chest and set his backpack down next to the pile of Emily’s shoes just inside the door.

She sat heavily at her tiny kitchen table, aching head in her hands.  “There’s some Motrin in the medicine cabinet. You wanna be useful, go get that.”

The Soldier barely made a sound as he padded through the small studio; the pills rattled in the little plastic bottle as he set it infront of her.  “You’re a bit scraped up,” he said quietly. “Can I grab your first aid kit?”

Dry-swallowing two of the pills, Emily fixed him with a look that totally wasn’t peevish, not at all.  “You ain’t getting anywhere inside my personal bubble until I know who - and _what_ \- you are.”

The Soldier nodded, then slowly sat across from her.  He kept his hands flat on the table in front of him, and watched Emily cautiously over the tops of his glasses.  “I don’t know how much you know about me-”

“I know you’ve got a metal hand under that glove of yours, and I know that you fucking broke DC the other day.”  She did _not_ have the patience for this, not with the headache that throbbed behind her eyes like her own private nightclub.  “I know your codename has a list of confirmed assassinations dating back to the nineteen-fucking-fifties. I know you work for-”

“I don’t work for them,” he snarled, eyes blazing with sudden anger.  “I _never_ worked for them.”

“Then what do you… oh.   _Oh._ Oh, Lord.”  A theory wormed its way into Emily’s thoughts as she stared at the man in front of her.  Last night, he’d looked like he was on death’s door, bleeding, injured, and barely conscious.  Now, he just looked… young. Young, and scared, and defiant.

After a few seconds, the fight left him and he braced his elbows against the table with his head in his hands.  “I don’t know who I am,” he admitted brokenly. “I don’t know my own name.”

“You don’t…”

The Soldier pulled off his glasses and his gloves, then scrubbed his face with mismatched hands.  “I know who I’m supposed to be, or at least, who I _was,_ before… before everything.”  He dropped his hands to the table.  “And I know it’s going to sound insane, but…”

“Like the past few days haven’t already been insane?  We got secret squid Nazis shooting up the Capitol and flying aircraft carriers and oh, did I mention the fact that half our fucking _government_ is apparently part of a secret organization of _fucking Nazis?”_  And nope, it was _not_ a good idea to raise her voice.  Emily swore under her breath and sandwiched her head between her fists.

Snorting mirthlessly, the Soldier closed his eyes.  “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. Your work schedule said you would be home later than you were.”

Emily rubbed at the back of her head and winced when she felt the swollen lump forming under her fingers.  “Yeah, well, work’s on strike, so…”

After a beat, the Soldier sighed and propped his chin on his hand.  “Pull out your phone and look up the Captain America exhibit.”

“What, the one at the Smithsonian?  You do it, I’m not staring at a screen right now.”

She watched in distracted fascination as he used his left hand to swipe and tap his way into an image search.  “That shit works on touchscreens?”

“I don’t even know half of what it can do,” the Soldier muttered darkly.  “Just… _woke up_ with it one day.”

Stunned, Emily just stared at him.  She really, _really_ hoped that the pieces slotting together in her head were wrong.  If he hadn’t been working willingly…

“You’re an assassin,” she blurted.  “A HYDRA assassin. But you didn’t want to be, did you?  Were you a prisoner of war?”

He hummed quietly.  “I used to be a sergeant, before everything.  I got captured and experimented on. Or, at least, that’s what the history museum told me.”

Emily forced her eyes to focus on her phone as he slid it back across the table.  The screen burned into her eyeballs with the light of a _thousand fucking suns_ but the picture displayed full-screen was unmistakable.  Everyone knew about the mural painted for the fiftieth anniversary of the day Captain America defeated the Red Skull.

Bright, bold colors showed the faces of each of the Howling Commandos; when their identities were declassified after the war, the government had released service portraits with each name.  The young heroes of the SSR quickly became the heartthrobs of the 1950s.

When Emily’s eyes settled on the man standing at Captain America’s left, though, she flicked her eyes up at the Soldier, then back down to the picture, and back and forth several times.  She couldn’t ignore the evidence literally staring her in the face.

The Soldier looked heartbroken, tired, and downright _scared_ as he watched Emily from across her worn, beat-up kitchen table.  “I think- I think I’m what’s left of Bucky Barnes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**protect handler**

_Doin’ my best, pal, but I can’t save you from your own stupid, you know._  The Asset squeezed his eyes shut and tried to rub away the half-memory of cleaning a bruised, bony face framed by a mop of blond hair.  He watched Emily press a hand to the back of her head and wince again.

**protect handler**

“You should get something cold on your head for the swelling.”

Emily laid down on her bed with a groan and waved the Asset towards the kitchen.  “In the freezer.”

He rested his weight on his good leg as he dug around the frozen meals and pizzas.  “I don’t see any ice packs.”

“Frozen peas, they should be somewhere in the door.  They have the ugly green label.”

As he walked back over to the bed, the Asset couldn’t keep the amusement off his face.  “Why frozen peas?”

“Cheaper and squishier than an ice pack,” Emily grumbled as she sandwiched the peas between her head and the pillow.  “And I hate peas, so I know I won’t eat them by accident.” She squinted up at the Asset and gave him a cranky grunt. “When was the last time you took a shower?”

“Does taking a swim in the Potomac count?”  Looking down at his hands, the Asset curled his lip when he saw all the gunk under his fingernails.  “I couldn’t use the YMCA or any of the shelters, not with the… not with my arm.”

“Not waterproof?”

The Asset snorted and shuffled over to the table.  For some reason, he didn’t feel the need to hide his injuries and limitations from Emily, and it was a strange sort of relief that he could favor his left knee without consequences.  “I didn’t just dip my toes into the Potomac, I swam to the bottom to drag that stupid punk’s star spangled ass out of the river silt. I think I’ll be fine in a civilian shower.”

“Does Captain America know you talk about him like that?”  With one hand keeping the peas on her head, she flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, then looked over at the Asset.  “Hair stuff and soap are fair game, just don’t touch my body butter, that shit’s expensive. Use as much hot water as you want, it’s included in my rent.  Might help some of those sore muscles you aren’t telling me about.”

**mission error?**

“Pain is within-”

Scrubbing a hand over her face, Emily sighed heavily.  “Acceptable mission parameters, yeah, yeah I’ve heard it before.  That’s just messed up, man. Go take care of yourself, and take some Motrin if it hurts, yeah?”

The Asset levered himself up from the chair and slowly walked his way over to where he’d left his backpack.  “They trained me to ignore pain, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am, I ain’t your mama.  You still hurt, though, right?”

“Yes.”  Wrinkling his nose, the Asset tried to figure out which of the shirts he had was less gross.

Emily waved a hand vaguely in his direction.  “Go knock on Billy’s door if you need clothes, he’s over in 4D.  He’s about your size, should have something that fits you.”

“These clothes are acceptable.”

“Those clothes are _filthy,_ buddy.  We’re gonna put ‘em in the wash as soon as I can stand without the room spinning.”  She grimaced. “You smell like you spent the night in an alley.”

“I spent the night on the roof.”

Emily simply stared open-mouthed at him, then groaned and laid back down on the ice pack.  “Jesus Christ, you are a hot mess. Go get clothes from Billy and take a shower. That’s an order, soldier.”

**order acknowledged**

**comply**

His feet moved before his brain had fully registered the order, and moments later he found himself knocking on a door just below a weathered brass 4D.  A tired man with skin like old leather and hair that was more salt than pepper answered the door. The Asset awkwardly explained that he was a friend of Emily’s, he’d lost his bags at the airport, could he please borrow something…?

Billy (the Asset assumed) nodded, closed the door, and came back a minute later with two paper bags full of clothing.  “Was gonna Goodwill this stuff anyway, saves me the trip,” he grunted, then thrust the bags at the Asset.

The Asset didn’t have to fake his thankful smile, but it quickly fell off his face when Billy’s hand closed around his metal wrist.

**mission complication**

_Well, shit._  The Asset was half-tempted to go punish _himself_ for that rookie mistake.

The two men stared at each other for several seconds until Billy cleared his throat.  “You a veteran, son?”

Swallowing, the Asset nodded.  It wasn’t a lie, after all. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.”  Billy frowned at the shining metal against his hand.  “Stark tech?”

“Yes, sir.”  An easy enough lie that might have been true.  Chances were that Howard - _oh god Howard -_ had been involved in the design at some point, wittingly or not.  He met Billy’s eyes calmly as the older man studied him for nearly a minute.

Finally, Billy nodded and reached up to pat the Asset on the shoulder.  “Thanks for your service, son. Now, you take care with Miss Dixon, you hear me?  Don’t you go hurting that girl. She’s too bright to let her life go to waste because of some...”  Billy trailed off, sighed, and shook his head. “Just don’t hurt her.”

“Of course, sir,” the Asset answered hesitantly.  “Is… there something I’m not aware of?”

“Ain’t my story to tell.  Now go on, get.”

He made his way back into Emily’s apartment as quickly as possible without attracting more attention.  As soon as the door closed behind him, he set the bags down by his backpack.

Emily had fallen asleep with one arm slung over her face, head still resting on a mushy bag of half-frozen peas.  Gently to avoid waking her, the Asset worked the bag of peas loose and crossed over to the freezer.

 _These expired years ago.  Good thing they’re not for eating._  His nose wrinkled in distaste as he squished the peas back where he’d found them.

**complete standard hygienic maintenance**

The Asset squeezed his way past the bathroom door and closed it behind him, then flicked the switches for the light and the fan.  Flickers of another tiny bathroom with an ancient, stained toilet and a cracked sink flitted away when he rubbed his head.

As the fan sputtered and ground to life, the Asset gave it a dubious look; he’d be surprised if it had any benefit at all.  The mold and mildew setting up camp between the shower tiles and in the sink drain made his fingers itch for a bottle of bleach and a rag.

_How does she live like this?_

**protect handler**

The Asset shook his head and pulled the shower curtain back to start the water.  As the pipes sputtered and hissed, he carefully removed his knee brace and then his clothes.  He had to do a weird sort of hop-step-rotate to get both legs in the shower without aggravating his left knee, but eventually he stood under a moderate spray of impressively hot water.

It wasn’t anything like the hygienic maintenance he was used to; for one, he could barely feel the soft patter of water on his neck and back.  He’d also never had properly hot water before, not that he could remember. After a few seconds of reflexive shivering, the warmth from the water finally soaked into him, and it took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to start moving once the tension in his shoulders released.  Sluggish and clumsy with relaxation, the Asset scooped up a chunky bar of soap and-

_Standing in a river, freezing his ass off, and it’s February in the ass end of nowhere in Belgium.  Steve’s asking for the soap, and they should really find a way to put a handle on it or something. Maybe stuff it in a dame’s stocking, if the suds’ll get through the fabric._

He shivered and twitched his way past the tacky, grippy feel of just-washed skin.  The soap in his hands was smooth and silky, a far cry from the the gritty texture still prickling in his memory.  Carefully setting the slippery bar back in its little pink ceramic dish, the Asset grimaced as he soaped up his face and then stuck it under the spray.

_You wanna impress Maryanne, right?  Then use the shampoo and stop complaining, Buck.  We can afford it for special occasions._

Snorting the water out of his nose, he dragged his hands over his eyes and blinked his wet eyelashes apart again.  It would be _really nice_ if his memories could just… organize themselves.  Reappear in chronological order, maybe, or even just something more than a few fragments of sense memory here and there.  It’d be nice, is all.

After reading over the labels of the bottles neatly lined up on the narrow windowsill - _don’t touch my body butter -_ the Asset decided to scrub some African Black Soap Dandruff Control Shampoo into his hair.  He didn’t know if he had dandruff, but at least it would be under control, now.

The directions on the bottle said to follow with a specifically named conditioner, and to his luck, the next bottle he grabbed matched the mission instructions.  He set the shampoo back down and squirted a good dollop of conditioner into his palm, working it in as directed and counting mechanically in his head for the indicated amount of time.

When he stepped back under the water, his eyebrows shot up in surprise and he quickly set himself a mission objective to use conditioner every time he had the chance.

The Asset ran out of things to clean fairly quickly, and with the giddy glee of a child that got away with sneaking candy to their room, he let himself enjoy a generous extra sixty seconds under the steaming hot water before he shut the tap off.  He stood there with his eyes closed, breathing in the thick steam and reveling in the strange, light feeling of… maybe not _no_ pain, but… less.  A manageable amount.  Mission-ready. Livable.

As soon as he moved his knee, though, yep, pain.  Lots of it. It took a moment for him to recollect himself and clamp down on the sensation, shoving it back in a little box in his head and locking it down tightly.  He cursed under his breath in fuck-knows-which-language, then blindly grabbed for the rolled-up towel on the shelf above the towel bar. The towel hanging on the bar had to be Emily’s, still damp from her shower that morning.

He left his clothing in as neat a pile on the floor as he could make; retrieving it later to wash it would be simple enough.  Padding out into the studio, the Asset wrapped the towel around his head and tried to get as much of the moisture out of his silky-smooth hair as possible.

**mission parameters updated**

**standard hygienic maintenance: new program: conditioner: confirmed**

“Holy _shit!_ Put some clothes on!”

**mission error?**

He froze, peeking out from behind the towel, and blinked owlishly at Emily.  “Are we going somewhere?”

“No, Jesus, you- you’re _naked.”_  Laughing awkwardly, Emily scrubbed at her still-closed eyes.  Her cheeks were a deep, dusky pink.

“...yes, I am.”

“So put some damn clothes on, you exhibitionist!  Nobody wants to see your ninety-year-old schlong hangin’ about!”

**order acknowledged**

**comply**

Confused, the Asset reached for the bags and pulled on the first shirt and sweatpants that came to hand.  The pants had weird bulges just under his knees, and the long sleeve waffle-weave shirt was stretched out for a beer belly he didn’t have.  “I… apologize. I don’t understand.”

“Are you dressed now?”

“Yes.”

Emily dropped her hand from her eyes and squinted at the Asset.  “Wow, that is _not_ a good look on you.”

Reaching for the hem of his shirt, the Asset looked over at the bags.  “I can-”

 _“Nope!_  No, that’s- that’s fine.  Clothes on. Clothes stay on now.”

He blinked at Emily a few times, then shook his head slightly and hobbled his way back to the bathroom to grab his knee brace.  

“So, uh…”  Emily watched him with mild curiosity as he arranged the fabric of his sweatpants under the brace.  “Shower go okay? You look like you’re doing better.”

“The hot water was… it…”

“Felt good, huh?”  She smiled slightly.

It took the Asset a few seconds to decide on a response.  “Your water pressure is low.” He straightened his leg, then locked the brace in position.

Emily side-eyed him.  “No, it’s not. It’s actually pretty damn good.  What were you looking for, a fire hose or something?”

“That’s… the standard protocol for post-mission Asset maintenance, yes.”

“You- they… they sprayed you with a _fire hose?”_

He frowned, confused.  “Affirmative. It was the most efficient method to ensure that the body was properly clean before storage.”

“Jesus Christ…”  Emily rubbed her hands over her face and shook her head.  “Y’know, the more I learn, the worse this gets. What do you mean, ‘storage?’”

“Cryogenic stasis,” the Asset told her quietly.  “That’s why I haven’t aged.”

The color drained from Emily’s face and she spent almost a minute taking deep, steady breaths before she let out a heavy sigh.  She pressed the heel of one hand to her forehead and gestured with the other to the Asset’s knee brace.

“What’s up with that?”

“Torn ACL.”

Emily winced and hissed between her teeth.  “That blows, man.”

Ignoring the unfamiliar slang, the Asset fiddled with the threadbare cuffs of his secondhand shirt.  “All injuries sustained during the destruction of Project Insight will be fully healed within a month.”

“What- _how.”_  Before the Asset could respond, Emily pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Okay. Cryogenics. Super-fast healing. Robot murder arm. I think I need to go do some research.”

“Research on what?”

Emily gestured to him.  “On you. On this. On what we’re dealing with, now.”

“This isn’t your-”

“Nu-uh.  Nope. You don’t get to break into my apartment and turn my life upside down and then fuck off into the sunset, buddy.  You’re stuck with me, now.”

The Asset stared at her, nonplussed, before he surprised himself with a grin.  “I guess I am, then.” He sat on the bed, watching her carefully for any sign that he was overstepping.  “Where do we start?”

“We just did.”

***

Emily rubbed at her eyes and propped her chin up on one hand as she scrolled through the third page of Google results.  Her aging laptop slowed down with each additional browser tab, and the notebook to her right was still frustratingly blank.  She’d intended to use it to gather up as much information as she could on her unexpected guest, then maybe sort it out into separate notebooks in the future.  Maybe a five-subject? Three-ring binder? Something that didn’t have the remainders of her LIS 514 notes clogging up the front thirty pages.

“I gotta admit,” she muttered, glancing up at the Soldier, “it’s a little impressive how according to the internet, you either don’t exist or you’re responsible for nearly every major political shift in the past century.”

“They kept all of my files on paper.  The only way to hack them would have been to physically remove them from one of the most secure data archives in the world.”  He idly picked at the plates on his left hand with a toothpick - Emily didn’t want to know where he’d pulled it from. She definitely didn’t have any toothpicks in her apartment.

“Well, that explains why there’s basically nothing about you in that info dump from after the attack on DC.”

“Info dump?”  The Soldier stiffened and his eyes went wide.  “When? Who leaked it?”

“Uh… just a sec… here.”  Spinning her laptop around, Emily showed him the article about the government hearings the previous day.  “This lady. She’s on the Avengers, she’s called the Black Widow.”

“Oh, Nataschenka, what have you done,” the Soldier breathed.  He didn’t seem to realize he was reaching toward the screen, his fingertips brushing over the Black Widow’s straight red hair.

“You know her?”

“I trained her.  She should know better than this.”

Emily watched him carefully; despite the events of the day so far, she still knew next to nothing about the man sitting across from her.  “Should know better than what?”

He didn’t answer right away, shifting around to start typing instead.  After a few moments he spun the laptop back around. “She just signed the death warrants of hundreds of thousands of undercover agents across the globe.  A lot of people are gonna die, because of that.”

“But that’s the bad guys, right?”

“And the good guys.  She leaked everything.”  Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Soldier sighed.  “Let’s just say it’s a really, _really_ good thing there aren’t any digital records on me right now.”

Emily hummed in agreement as she read through the list of names, locations, aliases… he was right.  “Those hard copies are the only records, then?”

“Those, and there’s this… handbook.  Manual, of sorts, with a red leather cover.  It has necessary information that I wasn’t programmed with.”

“You’re not a machine, you’re a person.  People don’t get programmed.” _Oh god, I’m sitting across the table from the real life Manchurian Candidate._

The Soldier’s lips twisted and he looked away.  “People have names. I don’t, not anymore.”

“You used to, though.”  Emily was trying _so damn hard_ to remember that the man was, for all intents and purposes, the world’s deadliest assassin and not some traumatized, abused kid in his mid-twenties.

“But I’m not him, and I’ve been HYDRA’s Asset for significantly longer than this body belonged to Bucky Barnes.”

Emily hummed and tapped her pencil against her teeth as she clicked over to the next page of useless search results.  “They had to call you something, though. A callsign, codename... something.”

“At first I was just ‘the American.’  Then, once they…” The Soldier swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck with his metal hand.  “Once I was useful to them, they called me ‘the Asset.’ The Russians gave me the callsign Winter Soldier in the early seventies, if I remember correctly.”

Glancing up at Emily, the Soldier gave her a brief, humorless smile, then clasped his hands in his lap and looked down at them.  “I _am_ a machine, at least to them.  Machines don’t have names, or feelings.  Neither do monsters.”

“You have feelings.”  She couldn’t help the indignant defensiveness creeping into her tone.  “You’re not a monster, you’re _human.”_

He barked out a laugh and closed his eyes.  “I’m a shark in a skin suit, Emily. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not dangerous.”

 _I am so hopelessly out of my depth right now.  They definitely didn’t teach Brainwashed Assassin Babysitting 101 in college._  Emily shook her head and closed her laptop.  “Can… can we come up with a name for you, though?  I don’t want to keep calling you the Soldier in my head.  It feels…”

“Impersonal?” he suggested with a shrug.  “Sure, I guess. Just don’t call me Bucky.”

“We aren’t in the military so I don’t wanna use your-”

The Soldier shifted uncomfortably.  “Yeah, don’t call me Barnes, either.  Or Sergeant, Sarge, anything like that.  I’m not him.”

“I know you’re not,” Emily told him, as gently as she could.  She hummed, rubbed her forehead, and squinted at the cut-off title on the tab with Bucky Barnes’s Wikipedia page.  “Does, uh… does James work?”

Scrunching up his nose, the Soldier thought about it for a moment.  “I think I hated that one, before.”

“I don’t have to-”

“No.  No, it’s fine.”  He waved away her protest.  “James works. It’s as good as anything else, right now.  It’s not like I got to choose my cover identities before, anyway.”

“Want some food?” Emily asked weakly, for lack of a better response.

James looked at her with wary, nervous hope, and watched as she bumbled her way to the tiny kitchen.  Emily rifled around in her small pantry, then the fridge. “I’ve got some frozen veggies I can thaw out, maybe some meatballs… add some pasta, call it a meal?”

“Just as long as you don’t use the peas.  I’m pretty sure they’re old enough to register for the draft.”

Emily brandished a fork at him and he barked out a startled laugh.  “Don’t diss my peas, I ain’t spending a week’s grocery money on one of those stupid blue gel bead bags.”  She turned back to the pantry and started pulling out ingredients.

“I, uh…”  James scratched the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish look when she turned around.  “I’m fine. It’ll just come back up, anyway. Don’t waste your groceries on me.”

“You gotta eat, buddy.  Aren’t you hungry?”

His response was quiet and uncomfortable.  “Constantly.” Looking down at his hands, James wove his fingers together and leaned forward on his knees.  “I burn more calories than a man my size should.”

“How much more are we talking, here?” Emily asked as she popped up on her toes and tried to see if she still had that protein powder from… before.  She couldn’t see the black and gold jar readily, though, so she closed the cabinet and turned back to James.

“I don’t know.  It’s in the red book.”  His shoulders curled inward and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, hiding behind the loose, wet curtains of his dark hair.  James curled his metal hand around his right arm, working his thumb in loose circles over the muscle as if to soothe himself.

Emily stared at the incongruity of a man literally twice her size shrinking in on himself like a chastened child, then shook herself and turned back to her fridge.

“Okay, well.  Food’s not staying down.  That’s something we can work on without that red book.”   _Work the problem, Em-em.  You can’t help him if you get tangled up in what-ifs and whys._  The freezer yielded a bag of green beans that she hoped weren’t suffering from freezer burn, and there were just enough meatballs for three normal Emily-size portions.  “What did they feed you, then?”

“They didn’t.”

The bag of beans crunched as it hit the floor.  “What?”

With his left hand, James pointed to a spot on his chest near his collarbone and said, “Parenteral nutrition.”

The words niggled at the back of Emily’s mind until something clicked into place.  She snapped her fingers and pointed at James, then pulled her hand back quickly when he subtly flinched.  “Food goop through an IV. I saw it on _Grey’s Anatomy.”_  Then, the implications of it sank in.  “How long have they been doing that to you?”

He frowned thoughtfully.  “Since the 1960s, or thereabouts.  They used me to develop the first IV feeding system.”

_Aaaand there goes what’s left of my appetite._

Numb, Emily leaned down and picked up the veggies, then stuck them back in the freezer.  She put the pasta back as well, then simply sat down on the floor of her kitchen.

James’s shoulders were slowly turning dark gray as water dripped out of his hair and onto his shirt.  He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves and worried at the loose, fraying threads with a nervous intensity.

“Do you remember what food tastes like?”

He huffed and shrugged one-shouldered.  “Not really. The nutrient slurries and drinks they gave me on missions were probably bland on purpose.”

 _No taste.  No sensation of eating.  Everything he consumed was given to him through an IV.  Jesus Christ._ Emily stared blankly at the floor between her feet.   _Cryogenic stasis, putting him in ‘storage’ when they didn’t need him, like putting the rice cooker back in the cupboard.  He’s a human being, not a vicious attack dog, you psychopaths._

Her eyes burned and she squeezed them shut, trying to push away the horror and anger welling up in her tear ducts.

“Emily?”

When she opened her eyes, James was kneeling awkwardly in front of her, his left leg stuck out at an angle.  He had his hands up as if he wanted to comfort her but wasn’t sure how. Confusion and concern drew his eyebrows together and pinched at the corners of his mouth.

“Sorry, sorry.  I just…” Pressing her hands to her face and taking a deep breath, Emily tried to get control of herself.  She sniffed wetly and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “I’m really angry right now.” There. Emotions.  Communication. She could adult.

James flinched away slightly and sat back with his foot curled under him.  He kept his hands loose and relaxed in his lap, plainly visible, and looked at Emily with a face that should have belonged on a kicked puppy.  “I’m sorry-”

“Ain’t your fault, _jeezus._ None of this is your fault.  I’m- I’m pissed the fuck off at HYDRA and the- all those damn bastards that treated you like-”  Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t even really _know_ you and I’m angry for you.  What the hell.”

His resigned wariness softened into something that closer resembled a watery smile.  “Been a long time since someone’s been angry _for_ me instead of _at_ me.”

“I don’t even know how you’re functional right now.”

James chuckled quietly.  “That assumes a pretty loose definition of ‘functional.’  I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I can’t go out in public without a mission to keep me from dissolving into a heap of paranoid panic.”

“You were asleep when I got home yesterday, though.”  Emily remembered that sickening red smear across her wall all too well.

“I wouldn’t call that sleeping.  It’s more like… shutting down. Turning off.”  James pointed to his head and snapped his fingers.  “Like a computer.”

“You’re not a computer,” Emily reminded him automatically with a sigh.

He shot her a flat look and rolled his eyes.  “I have a voice in my head issuing me orders and it’s imprinted on you like a fucking duckling.  I may not be a computer, but I’ve got a piggyback process running in the background that makes me feel like I’ve got a virus I have to scrub off my hard drive.”

The high-pitched giggle that wormed its way out of Emily was nothing short of embarrassing.  “Hey, all things considered, schizophrenia’s pretty manageable. There’s loads worse stuff you could be dealing with.”

“It ain’t schizophrenia,” James said grumpily.  “It’s like a five-year-old drill sergeant behind my eyelids that thinks I’m supposed to be your bodyguard.  Keeps ordering me to protect you.”

Emily bristled.  “I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”  James leaned back on his hands and tilted his head to the side.  “That baseball bat of yours was mighty convincing.”

“Oh god I am _so sorry.”_  Burying her face in her hands, Emily tried to ignore how quickly her cheeks heated up.

“Hey, I’d rather you react that way to unfamiliar, big, scary white guys that randomly show up in your apartment.  It’s a great way to stay both alive and safe.”

Emily peeked out between her fingers.  “Still. I feel bad, now.”

“I broke into your apartment and scared you.  Call it even?”

“Eh, sure.”  She held out a hand toward him, slowly enough that she didn’t feel like she’d spook him.

With a slightly lopsided smile, James took her hand and shook it.  “So, you were talking about making something to eat?”

“Yeah!  Right, yeah.”  Emily scrambled to her feet, then spent a few seconds leaning on the counter while her brain caught up with the movement.  Once the gray faded out of her vision, she plopped down in front of her laptop and opened a new browser window. “We may not know exactly what they did to you yet, but we can at least work on treating the symptoms.”

James carefully lowered himself back into his seat and started working his metal fingers into his right shoulder again.  “How so?”

“Well, they had you on a liquid diet, right?  For when you weren’t getting the IV stuff.” Her fingers flew over the keys as she Ctrl-Tabbed several articles open.  “That, I know how to fix. Or, Google does. But I will, once I read these.”

Looking away, James chewed his lip for a few seconds.  “I bought a… some type of sandwich on a thin, flat piece of bread.  It was wrapped up in some white paper, had a lot of spicy meat and vegetables in it.  I got it from the guy on the corner with the curly hair and the big nose.”

“Oh, the Greek stand?  Yeah, sounds like you got a gyro.”

He mouthed the unfamiliar word to himself, then shrugged.  “Ended up throwing it up about five minutes after I finished eating it.  It tasted… weird. Good, but with a…” Scrunching his face up, he snorted softly.  “Kind of a chemical aftertaste.”

Emily hummed quietly as she scanned a webpage.  “Could be your stomach needs to be taught how to food again.”

“...how to food.”  ‘Perplexed’ was probably the right way to describe the look James was giving her.

“I went to college, I’ve earned the right to butcher the English language.  Don’t look at me like that.”

James held up his hands in mock surrender and rolled his eyes.

Turning to her notebook, Emily jotted down a few bits and pieces of the article she was reading, then closed the tab and stood up.  “Okay, food time. Go ahead and… I dunno. Do cyborg assassins watch kitten videos? It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get dinner prepped.”

What she eventually set in front of him was a bowl of fluffy brown rice dotted with boiled-soft vegetables and yellow chunks of scrambled egg.  She stuck a spoon in it a moment later, then filled a glass with water from the pitcher in her fridge and slid that toward him.

Her laptop was untouched, but he’d flipped to a new page in the notebook and drawn something.

Emily stepped around behind him and cocked her head to the side.  “Who’s that?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure.  I- I think I know who he became, but he doesn’t look like this anymore.”  Lank, light-colored hair flopped down in front of pale eyes. A narrow, stubborn jaw framed thin lips, a long, straight nose, and high cheekbones.

“He’s cute,” Emily said, then turned back to the kitchen to grab her own bowl of not-fried rice.  “Didn’t know you could draw.”

Forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows rose, James stared down at the portrait and shook his head.  “Neither did I.” After a moment, he blinked and set the pencil on the notebook, then pushed it away from him.  He scooped up a bite of food on his spoon, then glanced up at Emily. “You sure about this?”

“Nope.”  Chances are he’d had enough people lying to him over the years.  She wasn’t going to add to that.

“Well… it doesn’t smell weird like the other food did.”  He worked the food around in his mouth, then nodded slightly.  “It’s good.”

Emily propped her cheek on her hand, chewed, and swallowed.  “Literally just rice, veggies, and egg. I usually put butter in with the rice when it’s cooking, but Google said dairy could be an issue if you haven’t had it in a while.”

“The… my American team gave me ice cream, once.”  James spoke around the wad of food in his mouth.

“Chew thoroughly before you swallow, okay?”

He nodded and waited until he’d done so before continuing.  “I got really bad stomach cramps after that.”

Emily leaned over for the notebook, flipped back to her page of notes, and added _possible lactose intolerance_ in the margin.  “I wish they’d had more complete records back in the 30s and 40s.  It’d be really nice to be able to just Google you - who you were, I mean - and have all this information come up.”

“Perhaps I can help with that.”

James was on his feet with a chef’s knife in his right hand and pushing Emily behind him with his left before she’d even registered that her _laptop_ had _spoken_ at her.  His bowl of food slowly wobbled from side to side, then settled back into place with a dull thunk.

“Identify,” James growled.  Emily peeked around him at her laptop and her eyes went wide when she saw words and pictures moving across the screen of their own accord.

Emily’s laptop responded in a voice that belonged in _Jeeves and Wooster._ “Sir has asked me to, as he said, ‘put up some Google Alerts for Cap’s undead BFF.’”  A small window popped up with a video of… oh. Oh, god. _That’s from my webcam_.  “Am I correct in assuming that I am speaking with Miss Emily Dixon and Sergeant Barnes?”

James bared his teeth and nudged Emily further behind him.  “Don’t call me that. I’m not him.”

“Apologies.  I can use another designation if-”

“Who the hell are you?” Emily squeaked.  She didn’t need to see her webcam feed to know that all that was visible of her was a mass of tight, brown curls and two huge eyes.

“My names is JARVIS.  I am an artificial intelligence created by Tony Stark.”

“I’ve just about had enough of talking computers.”  James tightened his grip on the knife, and Emily didn’t have the heart to tell him it wouldn’t do him any good against a computer program.  Maybe it made him feel better. Either way…

“You ruin my laptop and that knife’s edge by throwing it at the screen, you get to fix both problems,” she warned him.

James answered her with a low growl.  Addressing JARVIS, he asked, “What do you want?”

“I wish to be of assistance.”

“Why?”

“I have evaluated your actions over the course of the past two days and determined you to not be a threat.”  There was a pause, then the screen shifted again and displayed a digitized document with _SSR_ rubber-stamped at the top.  “As I said, I wish to be of assistance.  Here is Sergeant Barnes’s SSR file. It may contain some of the information you are looking for.”

“Who have you told about me?” James demanded.  “Who knows I’m here?”

“Currently, no one.  I am committed to maintaining your pri-”

“Bullshit.”

Emily gently put her hand on his arm and stepped around into his peripheral vision.  “Hey, big guy. Take a deep breath for me, yeah?”

His head swung around to face her, and his eyes were wide and tight.  “Don’t say that.”

“I just want you to-”

“No.  Don’t say that!”  Pulling away from her, James backed up into the kitchen.  “Please don’t say that. You’re not one of them. You can’t be.  I trusted you.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know- please, calm down.  I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want you to- damn.”  Emily scrubbed her fingers at her hairline.

“I believe it’s the phrasing, Miss.  We have records of HYDRA using those words in that order as a mnemonic trigger, similar to post-hypnotic suggestion.”  As JARVIS spoke through her laptop, Emily pressed a hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t say anything else. “Soldier, please inhale through your nose.  Hold your breath for five seconds. Now exhale through your mouth.”

James gradually calmed as JARVIS walked him through breathing, and eventually he let Emily take the chef’s knife from loose fingers.  “I’m sorry,” he croaked, wrapping his arms tightly around his stomach. His eyes were red and glassy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

After slotting the knife back into its place in her knife block, Emily turned to James and held out her arms.  “Would you like a hug? Is that okay?”

He stared at her for a few seconds like she was speaking in tongues, then nodded quickly.  Emily stepped up to him, giving him ample time to pull away if he changed his mind, then wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed her cheek over his heart.  The dull _thump-thump_ gradually slowed, steady and strangely comforting as she stood there hugging arguably the deadliest man in history.

After a moment, James’s arms came up to encircle her shoulders and he drew in a shaky breath.  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t apologize for being scared of something that hurt you.”  Emily somewhat awkwardly patted him on the back of his metal shoulder.  “We’ll add that to the notebook, okay? Maybe a new section for triggers.”

She felt him nod against the top of her head, then tip his head down and press it against her hair.  Then, as if he’d just realized what he’d done, he stiffened.

Emily tightened her grip around his ribs before he could pull away.  “It’s a hug. It’s a standing-up cuddle. Stop being weird about it.”

A laugh rumbled through his chest.  “Okay.” Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Thank you.”

“Well, your five-year-old drill sergeant thinks I’m your handler, so.  Guess I’m responsible for taking care of you, now.” Emily huffed, then snickered.  “Add that to the list of things I never thought I would say.”

James pulled away and gave Emily a timid smile, then walked over to the table and sat heavily in his chair.  Turning to face Emily, he looked disgusted with himself. “You know I’ve taken literally hundreds of lives, right?  Hell, I shot _Kennedy._  How are you okay with this, with _me?”_

She scowled at him, stalked across her studio to one of the bookshelves, and dragged a book out.  James jerked back a bit when she thrust the book in his face. “Read this.”

Looking up at her with perplexed curiosity, James took the book and turned it around so he could read the cover.  “The Manchurian Candidate.”

“It’s about an American sergeant that got captured, then brainwashed by some Russians into being an assassin.  The most important part of that book is that they decided it _wasn’t.  His. Fault.”_  She stabbed him in the sternum with her finger to emphasize each word.

“Miss Dixon is correct,” JARVIS informed them primly.

James set the book down and rubbed his hand over his face.  He glanced up at Emily, who was still leaning over him with her fists on her hips.  “Could you stop scowling at me already?”

“Not until you’re done being an idiot.”

His eyes widened in surprise, then he laughed fondly.  “Punk,” he said lightly, with a smile pulling at his lips.

Emily snorted, then sat back down and picked up her pencil.  “Okay, JARVIS, hit me. Whatcha got?”

“I have collected as many of the late Sergeant Barnes’s SSR files as possible”  JARVIS opened a folder on the screen displaying the files he’d mentioned. “On that note, what designation would you prefer me to use, Soldier?”

“I’m not Bucky,” he replied automatically, then deflated.  “I don’t… James, I guess. That’s what Emily chose.” James looked up at her, then down at the table.  He poked around at his now-cold food for a bit, then nodded. “Good enough as anything else.”

“You can pick another one if you want,” Emily reassured him.  She scooped up both bowls and laughed at James’s indignant expression.  “Relax, man, I’m just going to microwave them.”

“...oh.  Okay. You’ll..”  He looked startlingly young for a moment when she turned around.  “You’ll give it back, right?”

“Wha- of _course_ I will!  Why would I give you food and then take it away?”

James jumped slightly when the microwave beeped and stared at the steaming bowls as Emily brought them back to the table.  “They, uh… HYDRA used to do that to me. At first, you know. Before the IV. It was part of the…”

“Got it, okay.”  Emily swallowed down a suddenly thick bite of rice, and grimaced.  She slowly added _food deprivation_ to the list in the notebook.

“Sorry.  I just…” Pausing to chew and swallow a small spoonful of rice, James tucked his hair behind one ear.  “I haven’t thrown up yet.”

Emily sat up straight in her chair and grinned at him.  “Hey! That’s right! Okay.” She flipped her notebook over and turned to the back of the page she’d been writing on, and drew a line down the middle.  Labelling the left side _safe foods_ and the right side _nope foods,_ she added the ingredients of their dinner in the left column.

“Unless you have any further questions for me, I’ll leave you to your evening,” JARVIS said from her laptop.  “I’ve transferred all the files I access to into a folder on your desktop.”

“How will we…”

“I’ve also taken the liberty of adding myself as a contact in your phone, Miss Dixon.  Please feel free to avail yourself of my services either by voice or text.”

“Okay, you _both_ are gonna get the privacy talk when all this blows over.”  Emily pointed an index finger at each of them, ignoring James’s guilty puppy face.  “My phone is not the neighborhood bicycle. Stop stickin’ your fingers in it.”

A quiet _beep-boop_ from her laptop told her JARVIS had just made a tactical retreat.  James blinked at her owlishly, frozen mid-chew.

“Oh fer fuck’s sake,” Emily sighed, and flapped a hand at him.  “Finish your food.”

As James emptied his bowl with increasing enthusiasm, Emily started working on a grocery list for the next few days.  That led her to thinking about how the next few days would go, and-

“Shit.”

James’s head popped up from where he was scooping the last few grains of rice into his mouth.  “What?”

“Where’re you gonna sleep?”

“I don’t sleep.”  When Emily squinted at him, he shrugged.  “What? I don’t. I already told you. I’ll go up to the roof while you’re sleeping.  It’s fine.”

“Ugh, this is why I need an actual apartment.  With, like, rooms and shit.”

James looked at her thoughtfully, then set his bowl down.  “You’re already taking a huge risk letting me in here at all.  I don’t want you to feel unsafe-”

“Yeah, shut up.”  Emily stood up and headed over to the tiny linen closet next to her bathroom.  She dug through the bottom shelf for a few minutes, muttering to herself about _storage_ and _should have organized this_ and finally emerged triumphantly with a rolled-up camping mattress.

She set it down on the table.  “I’m not going to give you the bed because, y’know, _mine,_ but you don’t have to be uncomfortable while you lie awake all night.  You can use this on the roof or in here, I don’t care. But I’ve got heat, and insulated walls, and extra blankets.”

James visibly perked up at _blankets._  “I can have blankets?”

“Yes, of course you- Christ on _sale.”_  Stalking back over to her linen closet, Emily yanked out all the spare blankets she had from before she’d bought her little space heater.  “Here y’go.” She dumped the blankets on James’s lap and grinned at him. “More than enough to make yourself into a little assassin burrito.”

Emily sat down and finished her dinner as she read through the first of the files JARVIS had sent over.  While she did, James bussed his dishes to the sink, washed them, and set them in her drying rack without being asked because secret Soviet assassins apparently had _manners._

He then scooted the bag off the rolled up air mattress, inflated it and spread it out under her bookcases, and then carted the blankets over.  After removing his knee brace and carefully maneuvering his left leg into position, he quickly arranged himself like the blanket burrito Emily had joked about.

Within minutes, his eyes had drifted shut and his breathing had evened out.

“Doesn’t sleep, my ass,” Emily muttered fondly under her breath as she took care of washing her own dishes.

“I’m not sleeping.”  The words were muffled, and a few seconds later James’s head popped out of one end of the blanket burrito.  “Just resting. But it feels nice. I’m warm. Thank you.”

“Just don’t kill me in my sleep.”  She softened it with a smile. Yawning, Emily scooped up her pajamas from the corner of her bed and trudged into the bathroom to change.

Tomorrow was a new day.  They could figure it all out tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’ve disarmed nuclear warheads that were less complicated than this,” the Asset growled under his breath as he stared down the infernal contraption in Emily’s kitchen.  “Where the _hell_ is the…”

“What was that about nuclear warheads?”  Emily had a full laundry basket braced against her hip; she set it down with a thump and walked toward the Asset.

The Asset huffed quietly and gestured to the Keurig.  “You’d think getting a cup of hot water would be less complicated than high-stakes bomb disposal, but no.”

“Oh, yeah.”  Emily dug a box of cereal out of the cabinet, then leaned over toward the Keurig and poked a single button.  “There you go. That one right there. Why just the hot water?”

In answer, the Asset held up the box of chamomile tea.  “There’s no need to get one of those pod things dirty if it’s already in a bag.”  He raised an eyebrow at the mournful gurgle the Keurig machine made as it piddled quietly into his mug.  “Someone should’ve told my maintenance team that there’s reusable pods. I’d always see the single-use ones in the trash whenever they walked me past the break room.”

Emily shrugged as she sat down with her breakfast.  “Cheaper in the long run to buy the beans and grind ‘em up myself.  Less waste, too.”

“Yeah, that’s one thing I’m not sure I’ll never understand about modern culture.”  The Asset brushed his hair out of his eyes with his free hand. “I mean… capitalist America, there’s just so much…”

**mission parameter: leave no trace**

“Excess,” Emily supplied quietly.  She poked at her cereal and scooped up another mouthful.  “Yeah, sometimes I wonder how much we really learned from when the economy crashed.”

Taking a sip of his tea, the Asset raised an eyebrow.  “Which time? Because I can _definitely_ tell you something got lost in translation between 1929 and 2008.”

“You remember that?”  Emily studied him intently as she crunched her way through another bite of cereal.  Swallowing, she propped her chin up on her hand. “Doesn’t seem like mission-critical information, so… I mean, how much _do_ you remember from before?”

“Less than… well, not enough to…”  The Asset hummed and scrunched up his face; he couldn’t find the right words.  After dunking the teabag a few more times, he squeezed it against the mug and then dropped it in the trash under the sink.

“Most of my… technicians were long-term.  Once they got clearance to work on me, they tended to stick around for ten, fifteen years.  The one I had since the early 90s listened to NPR while she was working.”

**mission parameter: name: Henderson, Catlyn**

**mission parameter: designation: Medical Officer**

Emily hid a smile behind her hand.  “The Winter Soldier tunes in to NPR?”

“‘s not like I had anything better to do in the cryo tank.”  Taking a sip of his tea, the Asset kept his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him.

Before he’d finished speaking, Emily’s smile had vanished.  “...what?”

“They figured out pretty quickly that they had to do something like play music or books on tape or something to keep my vitals from going off the charts.  Only took a day or two for my brain to melt without it.”

“You were…” Emily’s face had gone gray.  “You were _conscious?”_

“I… suppose?  Partially, at least.”  The Asset hunched his shoulders slightly and definitely didn’t try to hide behind his mug.

“That’s just- that’s fucking _inhumane_ is what it is.  Jesus Christ, James.”

**mission parameter: name: James**

**mission parameter: designation: Self**

Right, he was supposed to be James.

He took another sip of his tea.  “For a given definition, sure. Consider this: they could have left me in there for years at a time and dragged out a gibbering mess that barely qualifies as human, thrown me in a cell for a few days so I could ‘sober up,’ and then made use of me.”

Emily let out a weird choked-off noise as she stared at him.

“Instead, they gave my mind something to focus on.  I mean, it wasn’t perfect. I absolutely was a gibbering mess that barely qualifies as human, but at least I was on my feet within hours of thawing.  And hey, how many people can say they’ve learned languages in their sleep?”

Emily blinked a few times, scoffed, snorted, then giggled a few times.  “That shouldn’t be funny. Why is it funny?”

“Because sometimes our only option is to stare life down and laugh in its face.”  The words tasted strange, familiar, just shy of melodic. He’d heard them before, but he couldn’t remember where or from whom.  Not that that was anything new, though.

“What’s the plan for today?” James asked, not bothering to smooth out the segue.

Emily scooted her phone closer to her and opened up her messages.  “Work’s still on strike, so… DoorDash.” She glanced up at James, lips pursed.  “You gonna follow me around again, or stay put and let your body heal?”

“You gonna pick any more fights with bullies on your lunch break?”  When Emily glared harmlessly at him, James chuckled and held up his hands.  “I’ll be honest, I’d rather not run laps around Harlem again. Just… don’t do anything stupid?  I’m pretty sure you don’t have a concussion, but don’t push yourself too hard today.”

She crossed her arms and scowled at him for nearly a minute before shaking her head.  “Fine. But only if you promise to eat something. You know how to use the rice cooker?”

“I think I can figure it out.”

As Emily scooped the last of her cereal into her mouth, she pointed her spoon at James.  “Don’ make me turn tha’ in’o an order,” she threatened around the mouthful of soggy flakes.

James’s stomach growled loudly and he rolled his eyes.  “Go on, daylight’s wasting.”

The rice cooker turned out to be significantly easier to operate than the spaceship-like Keurig, and soon James was scooping a good helping of fluffy brown rice into a bowl.  He settled back into his chair at the table and opened Emily’s laptop, booting it up while he waited for the rice to cool.

They’d added a bit more to the notebook thanks to the SSR files JARVIS had sent over, and James quickly read it over while he puzzled out where to go from there.

**mission requirement: basic necessities**

**item 0: shelter** **  
** **item 1: clothing** **  
** **item 2: food** **  
** **item 3: materiel**

James scowled.  He didn’t have any interest in expanding his arsenal beyond that which was already directly fused to his spine.

Shelter was easy enough; even if Emily decided she wanted him gone, he could always stay on a roof somewhere, or disappear into the underbelly of the city.  Clothing was… sufficient, if not satisfactory. Food was another matter entirely.

Emily had done her best to hide her worried grimace, chewing on her lips and reading over the growing grocery list enough times that she could have repeated it in her sleep.  Her comfortable yet frugal furnishings, the off-brand products, a binder clip full of coupons hanging next to the grocery whiteboard stuck to the wall… money had to be James’s first priority.  Sort out the money, and everything else would fall into place.

Money could be had easily enough; he knew the location of hundreds of HYDRA safe houses, dead drops, and caches in the state of New York alone.  That was cash, though, and stacks of high-value bills turned heads in a way that he couldn’t afford, not in the modern digital world. He’d have to see what was available; anything larger than $50s and he was setting himself up for unwelcome scrutiny.

“Hey, JARVIS?” James prompted, setting his spoon down on the table so he could type with both hands.  He peered at the row of bookmarks across the top of Emily’s browser, then typed his way over to Google Maps.

“How may I be of assistance?”

“Can you keep an eye on Emily for me, please?  I have some errands I need to run.”

***

Dressed in the clothes he’d purchased in DC - freshly washed, thanks to Emily’s early morning in the laundry room - James carefully kept himself as unmemorable as possible.  Dress too nicely, people would notice him. Come across as homeless, shabby, and dangerous, and passers-by would take note for an entirely different reason. He kept his head down and used his glasses and phone as a shield, social props to camouflage him in the flowing throng of pedestrians.

James slid through blind spots and kept his face carefully angled away from all the cameras he could spot until he scuffed to a stop in front of a long row of aluminum apartment mailboxes tucked in a back alley out of sight of foot traffic.  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out with one hand, using the other to rummage around as if looking for his keys.

 _I have intercepted the security feed,_ the message read.  James threw a quick, subtle salute at the camera and made short work of picking the lock on box 12H.

He quickly reached inside and tripped the latch securing the false back panel in place, then pulled out four bulky manila envelopes.  Each of their contents were in thick plastic bags, sealed against weather and wear.

Thumbing through the passports, James chewed his lip as he looked for one he could use.  The last one he opened would be passable enough, if he gained a little weight in his face and trimmed his facial hair strategically.  A New York State driver’s license was tucked inside the front cover of the passport. He slipped his new identity into a pocket, then resealed the bag and stowed it again.

Next was cash; it took a little work to flip through the neatly banded stacks of $50 bills with gloves on as he broke open one bundle and folded the bills into sets of five.  Four more bundles went into his bag, one into the inside pocket of his coat, and the last in the front pocket of his jeans.

He didn’t bother with the SIM cards and cyanide capsules in the third envelope or the tiny Beretta pistol he found in the fourth.  The handful of ceramic knives made him pause, but in the end he shook his head and didn’t take any. Making short work of closing everything back up, James secured his backpack in place again and pulled out his phone.

He followed JARVIS’s directions and soon found himself standing outside a boxy gray building covered in windows and logos.  A camera hung down above the door, and James eyed up the angle and height of it before he continued forward. Putting his phone up to his ear with one hand, he used the other to scratch at his cheek at the correct moment to block enough of his face to fool any run of the mill recognition software.

Training was the only thing that kept him from stopping dead in his tracks as soon as he was through the door.

The store was _gigantic._ James didn’t have much frame of reference, but something niggled in the foggy part of his memory, a subtle flash of stunned incomprehension at the sheer amount of food displayed throughout the store.  It just seemed… wasteful. Excessive. Flagrant. There wasn’t an adjective in his English vocabulary to effectively capture the weird, tight, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps ‘nauseous.’

As he walked stiff-legged to the produce section, he flicked his eyes around to pinpoint each of the indoor cameras.  He glanced down at the paper list in his hand, covered in Emily’s neat, cramped handwriting. Half of the items on there, he had no idea what they were, but asking for help was… risky, at best.  The safest mode of operation was to remain a ghost, brushing up against people’s lives but never leaving enough of a mark to be memorable.

James had to backtrack to the door to pick up a hand basket, and nearly dropped it when a child behind him let out an ear-piercing wail.

He spun to face the source of the noise, an infant nestled in a small cradle of some sort.  It wagged its arms clumsily, voicing its displeasure for the world to hear.

**mission parameter: acceptable loss**

He stared at the child through his goggles, the gun heavy in his hand.  The infant shrieked and wailed, too young to understand the significance of the shadowed, looming figure across the room.   _Acceptable loss._ The Asset raised his hand and slid his finger across the trigger-

“This way, soldier.  Forward march.”

His feet moved of their own accord, following broad, proud shoulders through a maze of obstacles until they reached cover.  The handler leaned against the wall of the hallway and turned to face him. The Asset set down the strange container in his left hand and fell into parade rest, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him to avoid eye contact during inspection.

“How long you been out for, son?”

The incongruity of the question caught the Asset by surprise, and he barely managed to avoid looking at the handler.  “Sir?”

“How long ago did you get out?” the man asked, glancing down at the crumpled scrap of paper sticking out of the Asset’s clenched hand.

The Asset studied the handler as well as he could through his peripheral vision.  Mid-60s, male, crew cut, military posture. Sharp eyes, sharper jaw. Six-foot-two, outside of fitness regulations.  Worn hands covered in calluses and scars. “I’ve… it’s...” The Asset realized the handler was asking about the date of his escape.

_Lies will be punished.  Omission will be punished.  Compliance will be rewarded._

**comply**

“Four days, sir.”

Swearing under his breath, the man shook his head.  “You’d think they’d spend more time rehabilitating you boys before throwing you back out into the world.”

“...sir?”  The Asset finally gave in to the temptation to look at the handler.

“You know where you are, son?”

The Asset blinked.  He was where the handler had led him.  They didn’t usually ask him trick questions like this.

“You’re in the back storage area of Whole Foods in Harlem.  It’s a little before noon on January 16th, 2014. You’re safe.  No one is going to hurt you, here.”

“I- I don’t-”

**mission parameter: name: James**

**mission parameter: designation: self**

The man repeated himself calmly.

The Asset-

**mission parameter: name: James**

**mission parameter: designation: SELF**

**SELFSELFSELFSE-**

James took a shuddering breath and the tension dropped out of his shoulders with a suddenness that left him feeling hollow.

“Welcome back, son.”  The man tilted his head to the side, eyebrows drawn together.  “You okay?”

“Operational.”  Leaning over and bracing his hands against his knees, the- James squeezed his eyes shut.

“That’s not what I asked.  Are you okay?”

James realized with an uncomfortable lurch that the man would know if he lied.  He waited for a few seconds, then let out a small sigh. “No. But I’m working at it.”

“Good.  That’s all I need to know.  What’s on that list of yours, son?”

“...sir?”  He looked up at the other man, confused.

“Unless you want to spent the next hour wandering around a store crawling with soccer moms, hippies, and screaming toddlers, you’re gonna need some backup.”

James blinked at him, feeling like a computer that hung while processing a file transfer.  The progress bar stumbled to a stop less than half way through to completion. _Loading, loading, loading._ “Who are you?” he finally managed to ask.  Not a handler, not someone he knew from Before.  This was someone new.

“Bill Thompson.”  Thompson extended a hand, graciously ignoring James’s momentary hesitation and the gloves that covered his own hands, a thin barrier between them.  “326th Medical Battalion.”

“James.  Uh, 107th Infantry.”

“No last name, huh?” Thompson asked with a smirk as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.  Before James could stammer out a response, Thompson waved it off. “So, your shopping list. Let’s get a battle plan set up.”

“No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.”  The words came out automatically, with a noticeable Brooklyn twang and a level of sass James wasn’t sure he still had.

Thompson laughed.  “Ain’t that the truth.”  He held out a hand and wagged his fingers at the paper list.  “Give it here, let’s see what you need.”

James handed over the list, taking his irritation at the automatic response to orders from an authority figure and shoving it in a tiny little box to deal with at a later date.

As Thompson perused the list, his eyebrows grew heavier and the lines around his mouth deepend.  He looked up at James with a scowl, and James took an involuntary half-step back. The brace around his leg kept it immobile, but he still had to stifle a wince when he settled his weight over his injured knee.

“This is a malnutrition diet.  Why the hell did they let you out of the hospital?” Thompson demanded quietly.  He turned his piercing gaze back down to the list.

“I… was never in the hospital.”

Scoffing, Thompson shook his head.  “Course not. Why would the VA give you the benefits you earned?  Christ on a cracker, kid. The hell _happened_ to you?”

**mission complication**

James eyed the other man warily.  Would he have to run? He _really_ didn’t want to run, especially past the cameras.

Shit.

Cameras.

_You’re supposed to be better than this, you pathetic excuse for a spy._

**mission complication**

**abort**

**extract**

“‘Scuse me,” James grated out, turning on his heel and walking as quickly as he could through the back of the store until he found himself next to a dumpster.  He leaned over on his knees, panic clutching at his ribs and pulling them inward, stealing his breath, stealing his heartbeats, stealing his thoughts-

Something bumped into his arm and wrapped around the elbow and he reared back.  His shoulders slammed into the grimy wall behind him and it took him a full five seconds to make sense of _tiny person poofy hair_ and realize that the delicate hands wrapped around his own were Emily’s.  Her bike lay on its side behind her, rear wheel still spinning.

“Hey, buddy.  Hey, come back to me.  Come on.”

James drew in a breath that could have been a whimper and let his head thunk back against the wall.  “Emily.”

“JARVIS called me.  What happened?”

“I lost your list,” tumbled out before James could string together a coherent response.

Emily raised an eyebrow.  “You lost my what?”

“Your list.”  Pulling his hands free, James pressed them against his face, smooth leather against rough, stubbly skin.  His heart rate skyrocketed, only compounding his frustration at the lack of control he had over his own body.  “The grocery list, the one you made with the foods I’m supposed to try. I lost your list and I can’t remember what was on it and- and- now you had to stop working because-”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

James couldn’t completely hold in the quiet squeak of surprise that escaped when Emily pulled him into a fierce hug.

They stood there for several minutes, James with his eyes squeezed shut and his cheek against Emily’s dense curls, and Emily breathing deep and even, calm in the face of James’s panic.

Finally, Emily sighed quietly and ran a hand over the back of James’s shoulders.  “Did you try to go grocery shopping for me?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice cracking.  “And I fucked it up. I got scared by a baby.  It cried and I had a flashback.” He knew that now, with the brutally honest clarity of hindsight.

Emily pulled back enough to look him in the eye, a smirk dancing across her face.  “Hey, babies can be scary if you aren’t used to them. What do you say we head back home, take a breather, and regroup?”

Reluctantly, James nodded.  He wrapped his right hand around his left elbow when Emily stepped away; she picked up her bike from where she’d dropped it in her haste to reach him.  “I’m sorry I-”

“Nope.”  One hand on her hip, Emily stared James down.  “You don’t apologize for being human. Something scared you and you reacted.  Did you hurt anyone?”

James quickly reviewed everything he remembered - the flash of the mother’s annoyance, the red face of the infant, the creak of the basket handles in his hand as Thompson led him away.  “No, I- I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re fine.  C’mon, let’s get back to my apartment.  I can always write a new shopping list.”

After a block of not-quite-uncomfortable silence, Emily nudged James with her elbow.  He looked down at her, and tried to match the smile she gave him.

“By the way, you have good taste in stores, but Whole Paycheck probably wasn’t the best puddle to dip your toes into.”

James choked out a startled laugh.

“I mean, seriously, you just had to go and pick the most intense hippiemart in town, didn’t you?”

“JARVIS suggested it based on the shopping list.”  James’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to read the new message.  “He apologizes for making assumptions about the quality of food we wish to eat.”

“Is he throwing shade?  I feel like he’s subtly throwing shade at us.”

James shrugged and dropped his phone back in his pocket.  “He’s supposed to be British. I wouldn’t put it past him.”  The light changed and they headed across the street. A gust of frigid wind kicked up and Emily reflexively shuddered, wrapping her hands tighter around the handlebars of her bike.

“Ugh.  Why couldn’t I have moved somewhere like, I dunno, _Florida._  Or Texas.  Somewhere that doesn’t drop below freezing in the winter.”  Emily held up a finger to shush James when he opened his mouth to reply.  “That was rhetorical.”

He chuckled quietly and felt his lips spread in the newly-familiar stretch of a smile.  “I guess the cold’s an acquired taste.”

“Yeah, well, you’d know,” Emily grumbled.  She then stopped dead in her tracks, then looked up at James with a horrified expression.  “I- wow. That was- I feel like an asshole, now. Sorry.”

Brushing away the apology, James stepped out of the way of an office worker clipping briskly along down the sideway with her head buried in her phone.  “It’s fine. I don’t mind if you make jokes about it. Makes me feel less... “ He shrugged again. “Less broken, I suppose.”

James’s eye twitched weirdly and he squinted it shut against the sensation, then tried to rub away the residual spasms.  He caught Emily’s barely-stifled snort and pointed at her accusingly. “Not a damn word, okay, we still don’t know what drugs they had me on.”

“Well, they had you on _something,_ that’s for sure.  C’mon, let’s get home before I turn into a popsicle.”

***

When Emily emerged from the bathroom with the bottle of Motrin in hand, James already had a glass of water filled for her.  He held it out, glancing down at the painkillers. “Does your head still hurt?”

She gave him an affirming grunt and plopped down at the table, then downed two tablets.  “Not as bad as it did yesterday, though.”

Setting his backpack down by the door, James carefully pulled his jacket off his shoulders.  “Well, you should probably take the rest of the day off and rest.” He didn’t seem to notice the tremor in his flesh hand that telescoped its way up into his shoulder.

“I… really can’t,” Emily admitted, spinning the pill bottle around on the table awkwardly.  “I was living paycheck to paycheck as it was before the strike, and DoorDash just barely makes up the shortfall.  I already lost out on most of yesterday’s income, I can’t take another day off because of a headache.” She scowled at the tiny printed lettering, stubbornly not looking anywhere else in her meager apartment.

Her Keurig and toaster oven were leftovers from Before.  If she’d had to buy them herself, well… chances are she’d end up with an old-fashioned percolator and bread crumbs in her oven.  Pencils and pens tended to multiply at the library, and over the years enough had followed her home that she could probably single-handedly stock a kindergarten class, if they didn’t care about whether the crayons were fresh.

Every piece of furniture was secondhand, and everything but the bedframe and mattress had been rescued from street corners.  She did have standards, after all. Don’t let the bed bugs bite and all that.

What really showed off her designated spot on the social ladder, though, was her books.

Her personal library was impressive; four floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the wall surrounding her bed, every spare inch of shelf covered in books.  The paperbacks were stacked on their sides, two rows deep, and even some of the hardcovers were wedged in on top of their neighbors. Some of them were new - gifts, mainly.  Most of them were still in their glossy plastic library jackets, matte white Dewey Decimal stickers faded and often rubbing away.

And most of them were rescues, repair jobs dating back to her time as a middle school bookworm.  Her skill had improved over the years to the point that she more or less ran the collection office, sorting books between recirculation, bargain sale bin, repair, and discard.  It was probably a good thing that she didn’t collect cats, or then she’d have a real problem.

Emily finally looked up to see James calmly holding out a stack of green-

“Jesus Harold Christ, did you rob a bank or something?”

“I… no?  Do you… do you need me to?”

“Do I need you to-”  Emily made a weird sort of aborted spaz motion - that she would _not_ admit to later on, thank you very much - to keep herself from making James flinch again.  “Why the fuck would I need you to rob a bank? _Can_ you rob a bank?”

James shot her a brief _that’s insulting_ look, then set the bills down on the table near her elbow.  He added another bundle of cash from his jacket, then pulled another out of his front pants pocket.  “All I would need is a laptop and reliable internet access. Or access to an armored truck. It’s a damn fool idea to actually run into a bank with a gun nowadays.  Great way to get yourself a few new piercings in bleedy spots.”

Taking a deep breath, Emily held it for a few seconds, then reached out and tentatively poked the bills.  “Okay. So, you didn’t rob a bank. Where’d you get all this, then?”

“HYDRA dead drop four blocks over.  It’s in an apartment mailbox.” James lowered himself into the chair across from her and released the catch on his brace.  “Intel, weapons, money, IDs, anything any agent might need in a pinch. They’re all over the world.”

Emily rubbed at the line she knew was forming between her eyebrows.  “You stole all that to buy me _groceries?”_

“Ain’t stealing if no one’s lookin’ for it,” James grumbled as he manipulated his knee.

The bills weren’t as crisp and flat as she expected; rather, some were crinkled and worn, and the only place they truly lay flat against each other was under the paper band around the middle.  A quick flip through them pinged a memory from some crime show about _non-sequential serial numbers_ and Emily set the stack of bills down with a quiet sigh.

“What do I do if someone asks why a brown girl workin’ at a goddamn library is suddenly flush with money?  How much even _is_ this?”

“Little over thirty grand,” was the nonchalant answer.  “And you don’t have to deposit it. Use it for gas, rent, groceries…”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Bike maintenance, then.”

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to breathe away the mounting frustration-panic-nervousness.  “Thirty grand, James!”

“Thirty-five, to be exact.”  He dug into the outside pocket of his jacket and came up with another wad of bills, folded like they had been in a wallet.

“Why?”

Scratching the back of his neck, James wouldn’t meet her eyes.  “I… didn’t want you to… you don’t have to pay for my stuff, too.”

Emily rolled her head back and stared at the ceiling.   _Thirty-five thousand dollars._ “God, I could pay off my undergrad loans with that.”  She threaded her fingers into her hair. “I could- I could put a down payment on a house with that.  I could buy a _car_ with that.”

“Do you need a car?  I can get more money.”

James looked so… so _innocent,_ sitting there at her table.

“Do you have any idea how _much_ money this is?”

“A hell of a lot less than it was back when I was born, that’s for damn sure.”  He poked the stacks of bills around until they were perfectly lined up. “If you need to put it in the bank, just do a thousand or so at a time.  Anyone asks questions, say you’re babysitting for your neighbors or something.”

An incredulous laugh bubbled up out of Emily despite her best efforts.  “Because my neighbors can totally afford to pay me a couple’a Gs to keep their kids from burning the apartment building down.”  She pressed her knuckles against her eyes until stars erupted behind her eyelids. “Will anyone be able to tell you raided that stash?”

James shook his head.  “JARVIS says he took care of the security footage.  I had my gloves on, but even if I did leave any prints behind, they won’t be able to match them with anyone in a database.  I’m not even sure HYDRA has my fingerprints on file. Only thing they’d notice is the missing cash and ID.”

Groaning slightly, Emily laced her hands behind her neck.  “I’m an accessory to several felonies and I haven’t even known you a week, yet.”

He ignored her remark and pulled his phone out, then a passport.  “Hey, JARVIS?”

“How may I be of assistance?”  JARVIS’s prim voice was tinny and quiet through the speakers of James’s brick of a phone.

Emily giggle-snort-coughed into her hand.  “God, it’s like if Siri actually worked.” Her fourth-hand iPhone 4 would age out of software updates in June, and one of these days, she’d have to save up for something new.  Or use the contract discount - or, hell, James just up and handed her more money than she’d ever seen before. How much would a new Macbook and an iPhone 5S cost? She’d have to do _something_ before her delivery apps stopped working on her tiny little dinophone.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“I think you offended him.”  Flipping open the passport, James turned it so he could read the number printed on it.  “Can you run a check to see if a passport’s still clean, English? I don’t want to get burned on a dirty ID like I did on my way up here.”

While they waited for JARVIS to wiggle his way through the appropriate databases, Emily set to work on a new shopping list.

“We’ll need to get you some more clothes,” she said, glancing up at James.  “And probably start shopping for a new apartment, while we’re at it.”

“I can’t ask you to uproot your life-”

Shushing him, Emily scribbled down _apartment w/bedrooms_ on the next line.  “I don’t know what it was like for you growing up, but I don’t plan on living in each other’s pockets longer than we have to.  At the very least, we need to get you a proper bed, and that won’t fit in here.”

James nodded distractedly, fiddling with another magically appearing toothpick.

“So.  Clothes, food, shelter.  I think that about covers it.”

“You said the store I was at wasn’t good for us.  Where should we go?”

Picking up her laptop, Emily grinned at James.  “Welcome, my friend, to 2014: the year of grocery delivery.”


	5. Chapter 5

Emily stared at the brownstone, confusion churning in her stomach.  “Buddy, there’s no way on God’s green earth that I can afford to rent this.”  The rich, reddish-brown color lent it a vintage feel, decades of weather and life worn into the stone.  A delicate wrought-iron railing lined the stairs on either side, and a matching window box to the left held a tasteful assortment of potted plants.  Nestled inside the arched entryway, a richly stained oak door waited for them to approach.

“Good thing you’re not renting it, then.”  James gave her a mysterious smile and nudged her forward.  “Go on. At least take a look.”

She planted her feet and wouldn’t budge, turning to face him with her hands on her hips.  “Good thing I’m not what? I’m not going inside until you tell me what that means.”

Even in the watery sunlight of mid-February, James looked better than he had when he’d first stumbled his way into her apartment a month ago.  His cheeks were flushed from the late winter chill gusting through the street, and his glasses, sturdy wool coat, neatly trimmed beard, and fluffy scarf did a lot to soften the sharp edges left over from his time as HYDRA’s pet assassin.  He’d pulled his hair back into a small bun at the base of his neck, something he was getting steadily better at with each passing day.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled, then he nodded toward the brownstone.  “You like it, it’s yours.”

“Do I want to know where you found the money for that?”  Emily still squirmed every time a wad of cash ended up on her kitchen table.  She wouldn’t lie; it really did make things much more comfortable, but… it wasn’t money she’d earned.  She didn’t feel like she had the right to spend it.

“I tracked down one of the larger accounts,” James admitted quietly, so that no one could overhear them.  He looked down at his feet, chin tucked into his scarf. The brim of the newsboy cap he’d become absurdly fond of temporarily hid his eyes.  “JARVIS helped me run the funds through enough proxies and offshore accounts that no one can trace it.”

Swallowing, Emily shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat.  “You’re serious about this? You’d actually buy a house in Spanish Harlem?”

“You need somewhere safer to live.”  James held up a hand when Emily started to protest.  “Any schmuck with a lockpick and enough determination could get through your windows.  Germany had more luck invading Russia than we’ve had beating back the mold in your bathroom.  The elevator never works, and neither does the lock on the street-level door. This is secure and safe, in a neighborhood that isn’t still recovering from the Hulk and Blonsky having a slap fight, and it’s closer to the library than any of the rentals we looked at last week.”

Scrunching her face up, Emily turned to squint at the brownstone.  “It’s a _house.”_

“It’s also got room for the twelve boxes of books you still have in your storage unit.”

The fight left her with a heavy sigh.  “Pulling out the big guns already.”

James shrugged.  “Also, it’s got a garage.  Secure storage for your bike, and a car if you want one.”

His nonchalance was telling, though, and Emily studied him for a few seconds before crossing her arms with a smirk.  “No, but _you_ want a car.”

James gave her an innocent look and scratched at the back of his neck.

“What is it, a Studebaker?  Delahaye?”

“I, uh…”  He chuckled quietly and scuffed his toe back and forth.  “I managed to track down one of the cars I worked on. Before, you know.  It’s an old Ford truck. Thought it might bring back some memories. If that’s okay.”  His cheeks were already pink from the brisk morning air, but his ears were slowly turning red as well.  “And, the, uh… the house has a full kitchen. So it’ll be easier for me to cook.”

 _This is the first time he’s mentioned something he wants for himself._ Even shopping for clothing, he’d only bought things she handed to him.  Emily chewed her lip, and James glanced up but quickly looked away. He no longer flinched at the slightest movement, but some old habits died harder than others.

James’s self-conscious smile took on a sharp, merciless edge.  “Also, using their money to help people is the biggest ‘fuck you’ that I can think of.”

A sudden burst of warmth nearly caught Emily by surprise.  With a bounce in her step, she snagged his left hand and tugged him up to the door.  “Well, in that case, come on!”

Turned away from him as she was, Emily almost missed the pained grimace that flashed across James’s face before he schooled his features back into a pleasant smile.

After a tour that left Emily speechless, James pulled the real estate agent aside into a hushed conversation.  He reached into his jacket for a folded set of papers, handed them over, and within a few minutes was shaking the other man’s hand.

Emily ran her hand down the banister at the foot of the stairs, tracing the graceful curl carved into the wood as it wrapped back around.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lived in a place with more than two bedrooms, let alone _stairs._  The living room here was practically the size of her studio apartment.

“Emily?”

She turned, and James was watching her with a strange, nervous smile on his face.  The real estate agent had stepped into the dining room, chattering away on his phone.

“Is it- is it too much?”

Shaking her head, Emily looked up the stairs towards the second floor.   _Three whole floors, all to myself.  Ourselves,_ she corrected herself.  There was no way she was kicking James back out onto the streets, not after how far he’d come.  Properly sleeping in a real bed, cooking for the both of them, taking care of chores while Emily picked up overtime at the library… He was a far cry from the rail-thin, twitchy, skittish mess of a man he’d been before.

“It’s just a lot to take in.”  She flashed James a toothy grin and jerked her thumb over her shoulder up the stairs.  “I’ll have to get my hands on some more books, now. It’d be a shame to let all that space on the top floor go to waste.”

“I’ve created a monster,” James laughed, rolling his eyes.  He crossed over to the large windows facing the street, keeping himself carefully angled and positioned to minimize visibility from the outside.  “So, he says we can move in as soon as the paperwork goes through. Shouldn’t be more than two weeks.”

“Hm.”  Emily walked over and ran her hand over the back of the lurid couch that would thankfully disappear with the rest of the stager’s furnishings.  “So, Tristan Morton, how’s it feel to be a homeowner?”

James - ‘Tristan,’ according to his stolen ID - laughed and poked his glasses back up his nose from where they’d been slowly sliding down.  “I guess I’ll find out pretty soon.”

The real estate agent called James over, and Emily went back to staring at the crown moulding.

She’d dreamed of a place like this, once.  Get her degree, get a job at one of the tech companies or a research firm, make a lot of money.  Marry a nice boy, settle down, have her obligatory two-point-five kids, adopt a shelter dog. Ideally in that order.

Echoes of the life she could have had already seemed to emanate from the walls.  The realtor had told them this used to be a family home, until work took them elsewhere.   _Must’ve been one hell of an upgrade, to be willing to move out of a place this nice._

Their pots and pans wouldn’t even fill up one of the several roomy cabinets in the kitchen.  James already had a sizeable assortment of ingredients and supplies for his recovery diet, but even with everything combined, their new pantry would be less than half full.

After gritting their teeth through the real estate agent’s painfully unsubtle remarks about how the brownstone was a perfect place to raise children, James and Emily took their leave.

“I wish he would have stopped,” James grumbled as he worked his way down the stairs.  His gait was smoother and more balanced, now that he could leave his brace unlocked and free to bend more often than not.  “I mean, it’s awesome that no one cares if we were... you know, but…”

Emily hunched her shoulders against the breeze that plucked at her clothes.  “Yeah.”

“What do I have to do to get people to stop assuming things?  Mince my steps, flip my wrists around, and tell ‘em I’m a fairy?”

She choked on air.  When she was done coughing, Emily turned to him and frantically motioned for him to keep his voice down.  “You can’t say that kind of stuff any more.”

Understanding dawned and James flushed slightly as he nodded.  “Sorry. That’s like the n-word now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Halfway back to the apartment, Emily stopped dead in her tracks; James continued a few more paces before turning to look at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Everything jake?”

“Yeah, just - _are_ you?”

“Am I what?” he asked, confused.

“Y’know.”  Emily shrugged.  “Gay.”

Blinking, James shifted his weight onto his good leg.  “Oh. Uh. I don’t actually know. Not anymore, anyway.”

“How can you not know?”

“I’m years away from being mentally together enough to even _think_ about anything like that, trust me.”  James laughed bitterly. “And I don’t even know if I… well.  Let’s just say it’s not a high priority.”

Stepping closer, Emily reached out and put a hand on James’s arm.  “Don’t even know if you what?”

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw pulsing as he gritted his teeth, and didn’t answer.

“James?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  The unspoken _please don’t order me to tell you_ hung heavily in the air between them.

“Okay.”  Emily backed off immediately and left her hands loose at her sides, visible and empty.  “Sorry.”

With an off-kilter, jerky nod, James turned and continued toward the apartment.  His shoulders were tight and he was staring pointedly at the ground when Emily caught up to him at the next intersection.  After a moment, he pulled his right hand out of his pocket and reached around to work his thumb back and forth under his collarbone on the left.

“Arm bothering you?” Emily asked quietly when the light changed and they started across the street.

He didn’t answer for a few seconds, then let out a small sigh.  “Cold weather always makes it ache inside.”

Right.  It wasn’t clear how deeply the prosthesis extended into his torso, how much of his body they’d ripped out and rebuilt in gleaming, merciless, cold metal.  She felt it safe to hazard a guess that, judging by the limited research she’d been able to do, most of his spine and a good portion of the bones and muscles on his left side were synthetic.

Emily didn’t press the issue until they got back to the apartment and the door was closed.  She pointed to one of the chairs tucked under the table. “Let’s take a look at that arm of yours.”

Hesitant, James hovered next to the chair until Emily pointed more insistently.  He slowly worked off his coat, using his mostly-healed right arm to favor his left.  His long sleeve shirt took a bit more effort, though, and he was still struggling to get that over his head when Emily came back from grabbing her first aid kit.

“Put your arms straight out,” she told him, then tugged the shirt over his head and forward.  James set his left arm down on the table, palm up, with a quiet hiss. He tugged his glasses off with his other hand and tossed them onto the table with a quiet clatter, then scrubbed at his eyes.

The last time she’d seen his arm in its entirety, she’d slapped a hand over her eyes as soon as possible because _holy shit naked._ Her breath caught in her throat as she eyed the angry red, inflamed skin around the seam between metal and flesh.

Stripes of knotted scars radiated outward like rays of sunlight, rippling the skin over his chest and framing the edge of both the most advanced prosthesis Emily had ever seen, and the worst human rights violation she’d ever seen.  The flesh was raised in a tight band immediately around the seam, shiny and almost iridescent from the tension.

“Any idea what’s causing it?” Emily asked James as she counted out his usual dose of pain-be-gone pills.  She got him a glass of water next, and snagged the bag of peas and a dish towel to wrap it with on her way back.  “Here, hold this on the worst of it.”

James shot her a baleful look, but pressed the peas over the front of his shoulder anyway.  “Whole damn thing feels like it’s on fire.”

Mulling over their options, Emily pulled the other chair around to sit in front of him.  A cold shower was a no-go for him, same with baths. She could always buy more peas, but…

She picked up her phone and opened the camera, framing James on the screen but not taking a picture.  “JARVIS, any ideas?”

The image zoomed in of its own accord, and a few seconds later, JARVIS asked, “Were you on any immunosuppressants before your escape, James?”

He grunted in response, then rubbed the heel of his free hand over his forehead.  “I don’t know, they didn’t exactly give me a list of the stuff they were dumping into my veins.  Makes sense, though.”

“Alright, give me a real-person pain number,” Emily prompted him.

“Fuck, I dunno, five?”

Emily winced and helped him adjust the peas further up his shoulder.  “We should get you to a doctor.”

His response was immediate, automatic, and flat.  “No doctors.”

“I know, but watching _Grey’s Anatomy_ and _House_ don’t qualify me to be a medical professional.”  Rubbing her face with her hands, Emily exhaled sharply.  “JARVIS, any chance there’s someone that does house calls that won’t say anything?”

“As always, such variables are beyond my ability to calculate.  I can arrange to have a sufficient dosage of immunosuppressants delivered within the hour, if that is acceptable.”

“Thanks, J.”  Hesitantly, watching James for any sign of discomfort, Emily reached out to run her fingers over the scarring.  “Are these…”

“From my fingernails?”  He rolled his head to the side and massaged his neck one-handed.  “Yeah. Took me a few decades of getting my skull used as an electrical conduit to stop trying to claw it off every time they woke me up.”

Emily had to stop and take a few breaths before she vigorously rubbed her face again, stood, and crossed over to the linen closet.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Heating pad,” she answered without turning back.  “Ice for the swelling, heat to soothe the muscles.”

“No heat.  It’ll just make the inflammation worse.  Stevie hated the heat whenever his rheumatism acted up.”  The bag of peas crunched as James adjusted it again. When Emily looked back at him, he had slouched slightly in his chair and had his head tilted back, the long line of his neck and jaw catching the light.

“Who’s Stevie?”

James rolled his head forward to look at her, confused.  “What?”

“You just mentioned someone named Stevie with rheumatism.”  Shifting around, Emily sat down next to the linen closet and pulled her knees into her chest.  “Is that someone you knew, before?”

“I don’t-”  James cut himself off, winced unhappily, and shook his head.  “I don’t know. It’s… probably… I don’t know. It just popped up  I don’t remember.”

He didn’t seem interested in elaborating, though.  Emily knew that the fragmented memories of a waifish blond boy were from the childhood he’d shared with Captain America, but every time she’d tried to bring it up, James’s responses had been less than helpful.  Playing the ‘what does James remember today’ game was tricky and stressful, at the best of times.

 _Best friends since childhood,_ most of the history books said.  From the schoolyard to the war-torn landscape of Europe, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes had been inseparable until the fateful mission where Barnes had died.

Or, rather, was _supposed_ to have died.

The details of that last mission were still classified, and James had yet to fill in the details himself.  Emily had long since forced herself to stop speculating - she liked being able to sleep at night.

With a quiet grunt she stood up, then sat across from him at the table.  She spun the notebook, James’s notebook, around so that she could flip through it, and thumbed her way over to a page full of question marks.

Several columns of checkboxes covered the page; boxes with tick marks had page numbers to their left referencing the entry that answered that question.  A meticulous table of contents took up the first several pages in the notebook, providing a quick reference guide if needed. Colorful plastic tabs poked out from between the pages, marking entries they went back to regularly and other important information.

Emily added _Immunosuppressants?_ to the bottom of the checklist, then sat back in her chair and frowned thoughtfully.  “Wouldn’t locking down your immune system leave you open to a bunch of other problems?

James pulled a face at the now-mushy peas and set them down on the table with a wet plop.  He began gently rubbing the inflamed skin around his prosthesis, then scooted around so he was no longer sitting sideways in the his chair.  “I doubt HYDRA cared about that. I’m immune to most pathogens and toxins as it is, so they wouldn’t need to keep me from catching the flu or anything.”

Grimacing, he curled his right hand around the back of his neck and slumped forward onto the table.  His left arm was still loose and as relaxed as could be expected, right elbow braced against the peeling veneer.  

“Twitchy?”

“Brain zaps,” he mumbled back, rolling his head to the side to soothe the twinges from his still-unknown-drug withdrawals.  “Can I have my shirt back? I feel cold.”

Rather than help him work his arms back into his henley shirt, Emily scooped up one of the neatly folded blankets on his air mattress.  She floofed it open, folded it in half, then gently draped it over his shoulders. James grabbed the edges in his right hand, clutching it tightly around him like a cloak.

“Should I ask Billy if he’s got any extra Percocet?”

Shaking his head, James closed his eyes.  “No, he needs it more than I do. Also, the most his dosage will do for me is just take the edge off.”

“You shouldn’t have to be in pain.”  Emily scooped up the peas and stuffed them back in the freezer, debating for a moment before pulling out the fresh bag of green beans she’d bought the day before.

When she tried to hand them to James, he protested.  “That’s for dinner tonight, we can’t go thawing them just to soothe an achy joint.”

“You’re in pain, buddy,” Emily insisted, thrusting the beans at him.  “You’re in pain, and I don’t like seeing you in pain because I’m a squeamish nurse, okay?  The only reason I got through digging out those bullets is because you didn’t fucking move.”

He grumbled a few choice words in Russian under his breath before slapping the beans onto his shoulder under the blanket.

The plastic film dust jacket of a former library book crinkled as Emily opened the cookbook she’d rescued from the discard bin earlier that week.  “Which one was it you wanted to try tonight?” Ink stains spattered over a few pages, but the printing underneath was more than legible if she just angled the page to reflect light properly.

“Page sixty-two, with the basmati rice.”

Emily hummed as she scanned the recipe, tapping her finger against her lips.  It looked fairly straightforward and simple, something even she could manage on her compact stove.

She hung the cookbook up where she could see it using a plastic-clip trouser hanger and a cabinet knob, then began collecting ingredients.  “I don’t know how I got lucky enough to rescue a gluten-free cookbook, but man, I’m glad I did.”

“I miss bagels,” James said forlornly.  He was wagging the fingers of his metal hand gently, curling them into his palm then straightening them again.  “I don’t know why the hell HYDRA would make it so wheat makes me sick, but seriously, fuck those guys.” His head hit the table with a dull thunk as he slumped forward.  “I miss _cake._ I miss cake and I can’t even remember eating any.”

An idea sprang into Emily’s head and she almost dropped the measuring cup she was using to pour dry rice into her rice maker.  She clawed her phone out of her pocket, swiped into the calendar, and had to hide a gleeful smile at what she saw. It took a few seconds to get her excitement under control before she said, “Well, there’s a bakery down the street from the brownstone that’s certified gluten free.  We should check them out sometime.”

His birthday was in less than a month, and he deserved something nice for how much progress he’d made.

His birthday was going to be _awesome._

***

James wished he had a photostatic veil, synthetic skin, holograms, _anything_ to disguise his damned arm and let him walk around in public without covering himself from neck to fingertips.  He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve after setting down the box full of books, then turned around to see Emily leaning in the doorway to what would become her own little library.  She grinned at him, then gently tossed him a cold plastic bottle.

Cracking the lid off, James braced himself for the slight gag he had to stifle with the first sip of every bottle of Orgain.  “Last box,” he told Emily after licking his lips. “You decided yet on what you want to do for bookshelves, or are you still planning to use milk crates?”

“Milk crates for now, until I find something I like.  I want to be able to fit my oversized books without messing up the covers.”

“Could always build something.”  James eyed up the walls, chewing his lip.  “Can’t be that hard, can it?”

**mission difficulty: 2/10**

“You say that now,” Emily commented drily as she turned and headed for the stairs.

**mission difficulty: amended: 3/10**

The house felt empty, echoing strangely as they and their meager belongings pinballed around a space far too large for them.  James’s footsteps rattled metallically off the walls around him, and he made a mental note to see about installing some carpet on the stairs.  Provided Emily liked the idea, of course.

His left shoulder still ached, but after a week of fiddling with the dosage of the pills that magically appeared on their doorstep without a prescription, angry red inflammation was finally fading back into the dull gray of scar tissue.  Working his arm around gently, James trotted down the last of the stairs and into the kitchen that separated the living room from the dining room on the ground floor.

Emily bent over to pick up a box from the floor near the little table from her old apartment, now dwarfed by the large room.  She grunted slightly as she worked her fingers under it, and James quickly stepped over and lifted it for her.

“Where do you want it?”

“Kitchen island.”

He walked the box into the kitchen and set it down with a solid clank on the granite surface.  “Criminy, what’s in here?” Peeling the box flaps apart from where they were woven together, James peered inside.

“My mom’s cast iron, from my storage unit.”  Emily leaned against the counter next to him and pulled a face.  “Probably not usable without a lot of work.”

**mission difficulty: 1/10**

“It’s just rust.  Scrubs off easily enough.”  Picking up a large skillet, James turned it over in his hands.  “The iron’s still in good shape. This stuff’s probably as old as I am.”  He twirled the skillet by the handle, then set it on the spindly grate covering the gas stove.  Two more skillets followed it, nested like matryoshka dolls, along with a flat square griddle and a short, squat Dutch oven.

Emily wrapped one arm around herself and scratched her ear with the other hand.  “Don’t you have to, like, sand blast it or something?”

“Nah, just steel wool and maybe some oven cleaner to get the gunk off.  We’ll need to reseason them before they can be used, though.” Picking up the smallest skillet, James traced a splotch of rust on the underside.  “It’s all Gibson ware, this is good stuff. I’m surprised your mom was willing to part with it.”

Shoulders stiffening, Emily looked away.  “She, uh. I inherited it.”

**protect handler**

James set the skillet down gently and closed his eyes.  “I’m an asshole.”

“You didn’t know.”

**protect handler**

“Still.  I’m sorry.”

Emily shrugged and walked into the living room.  She ambled to a stop, then stood there listlessly as if looking for a place to sit.  The house had come unfurnished, everything in it removed as soon as the paperwork went through.  “We need a couch.”

“We need a lot more than just a couch.”  Leaning back against the counter, James stuffed his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.  “Do any of the local stores deliver? Otherwise we’ll need to rent a truck, too.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” JARVIS prompted through James’s phone, muffled slightly from where the device was stuffed in James’s front pocket.

**mission parameter: benefit: undetermined**

“You’re a sentient and very nearly omnipotent artificial intelligence, pal, not our butler.”  Pulling out his phone, James set it on the counter next to him. “Besides, how do I know the house won’t get covered in Iron Man merchandise?”

“I assure you, I may not possess a corporeal form, but good taste is something I do not lack.”

Emily hid an expressive snort behind her hand.

“Just keep it… tasteful, then,” James relented.  “And, locally made if you can manage it. None of that cheap schlock from overseas.  I don’t need to know how good my Swedish is.”

“As you wish, sir.”

**mission parameter: benefit: confirmed**

“Always so polite.”  Rolling her eyes with a fond smile, Emily headed for the stairs.  “I’m going to go spend some time reacquainting myself with my books.  Holler if you need me.”

After he got the last box of gluten free flour jars unpacked and arranged on the counter, James flicked out a pocket knife and quickly broke down the haphazard pile of empty boxes in the dining room.  He stacked them all flat, poked them a few times to make sure the stack wouldn’t fall over, and rubbed absently at his shoulder as he scanned the kitchen for anything else to unpack.

_It’s bigger than the last one, Stevie, you’ll see!  It’s even got its own sink!_

James swallowed and rubbed at his eyes, hoping the short fragment of a maybe-memory didn’t come with the usual headache.  He trudged up the stairs, grabbed some clothes from a box in his room - _his_ _room_ \- and headed for the shower.

A neat row of translucent orange bottles lined the wall next to the sink: medicine for his overactive immune system, for his anxiety attacks, for his insomnia, and a painkiller strong enough to knock out a horse.  He didn’t want to know how JARVIS had managed it. The pills worked. That’s all he cared about.

Emily clumped about upstairs as he peeled himself out of his clothes and got the water running.  The pipes hissed slightly before settling into a smooth, gentle flow, and James took a few seconds to check over the fading inflammation around his prosthesis before he stepped into the shower and started rinsing off the exertion of the day.

***

She’d followed the recipe.  She’d bought _exactly_ what the recipe told her to, down to the brand and size.  She’d mixed everything together like the lady in the YouTube video.  The oven was accurate, she’d tested it last week.

So what the _hell_ had gone wrong?

Emily scowled at the mess on the counter in front of her and considered her options.  Problem was, if she didn’t know what she’d done wrong, she’d end up with the same results if she tried the recipe a second time.

Crumbs covered the counter, stuck together in odd clumps with drying frosting.  The cake looked like it had leprosy. Chunks had broken away, and the only layer of frosting that had worked properly was currently gluing the two baking failures together.

So much for a homemade layer cake that wouldn’t trigger James’s allergies.

With a heavy sigh, Emily leaned on the counter and closed her eyes.  She had twenty minutes before the bakery down the street closed - could she get there in time?  Would they even have anything left? More importantly, would it be gluten _and_ lactose free?

Maybe that’s where she’d gone wrong.  She’d followed the directions for substituting in some of that weird carton milk that James liked, but it hadn’t been the brand suggested by the other website.  If it was the same amount of liquid, though…

A key grated into the lock on the front door, pulling Emily out of her thoughts.   _Shit._  James wasn’t supposed to be home for…   _Well, crap._  She’d misjudged the time.

He glanced at her curiously as he leaned over and unlaced his boots, still covered in mud from his under-the-table job with a construction company.  “What’s that? It smells good.”

Emily nearly stabbed herself in the eye before she remembered she was still holding the frosting knife.  “I, uh…”

Padding over, James studied the explosion of baked… _something…_ on the counter and tilted his head to the side.  “Did you make a cake?”

“I _tried_ to.”  Her voice cracked and she stuck the knife upright in the middle of the remnants of the cake.  “Didn’t go so well.”

James tilted his head and turned so that he could read the _Happy Fucking Birthday_ Emily had written on it in her frustration.  He blinked, snorted, then burst out laughing. “Oh, this is- this is precious.”

Crossing her arms, Emily scoffed.  She scowled at the should-have-been-cake.  “Yeah, yeah, yuk it up.”

James chuckled a few more times, shaking his head, and pulled Emily into a one-armed hug.  “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, this is so _perfect.”_  He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture, then tugged the knife out of the cake.  “Thank you.”

“It’s _horrible._ It wasn’t supposed to come out like this.”

“Emily.  Hey.” He nudged her shoulders until she turned to look him in the eye.  “I don’t care how it looks, okay? You made it, that counts for a lot already.”

“It’s literally in pieces.”

Shrugging, James pulled open the silverware drawer and picked up two forks.  “Hey, so am I.”

Emily’s lips twitched into a smile despite herself, and she took the proffered fork.  Gesturing to the cake, she stepped to the side to give James better access. “Let’s see how it tastes, I guess.”

He paused, looked up at her with a raised eyebrow, and Emily immediately shook her head.  “No. No, I’m not singing for you. Happy fuckin’ birthday, have a cake.”

James laughed again, then tried to carve a bite out of the side of the cake.  He ended up with a crumbly blob, somehow mushed together enough to stay in one piece.

It disintegrated into tiny little fuzzy chunks before he ever got the fork to his mouth, dusting his beard and heavy canvas work jacket with white cake, blue frosting, and red sprinkles.

Staring down at his cake-covered chest, James huffed quietly.  He took Emily’s fork, turned back to the silverware drawer, and-

“Spoons?  Seriously?” Emily asked as he handed her a soup spoon.

James shrugged, grinned at her, and carved himself another bite.  “First birthday cake I’ve had in seventy years, I’m damn well going to eat it.”

All in all, despite the wacky texture, Emily had to admit, maybe it wasn’t a complete loss.  James was laughing and smiling, and hey, it actually tasted like cake.

During cleanup, James shuffled around the small assortment of flour jars in the corner of the counter, then made a surprised noise as he extracted a powder-filled glass jar from behind them.  “Is this…”

Emily took the jar from him, read the label, and smacked herself in the forehead.  “Mother _fucker,_ I forgot the xanthan gum.”

Peals of James’s laughter filled the house as he leaned helplessly against the counter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 6 through 8 will be posted 5/20/18.


	6. Chapter 6

Emily nudged the little metal stool into place with her foot and stepped up carefully as she kept the stack of books in her arms from sliding everywhere.  One by one, she slotted them back into place. Grumbling under her breath about how the books  _ always _ got out of order, Emily took a few more minutes to quickly shuffle everything around until the call numbers were correctly arranged.

The next shelf down, it was the same story.  She expected it in the children’s section, sure, but in Early American History?  Emily sighed, stepped off the stool scooped up her next stack of books, and set to work.

She cursed under her breath as the stool wobbled, shifting her feet around to pin down the edge that wouldn’t fucking  _ stay down.   _ Seriously, would it kill the admin board to put up a few dollars for new stools, or even repair the old ones?  Half of them didn’t even roll properly anymore.

When she stepped down for the next armful of books, she heard footsteps behind her.  Turning around with her customer service smile in place, Emily looked up at the man approaching her.

His shoulders were rounded with exhaustion, and his once-nice leather jacket was rough and worn.  Holes peppered his t-shirt and his jeans had a rip forming in one knee. His boots were scuffed gray, the soles unevenly worn from his rolling, off-balance gait.  Just long enough to be brushing his collar, his dusty brown hair hung loose around his face. Lines of fatigue and dark circles framed his eyes, and several days of scruff covered his cheeks.  He looked overdressed for the warm early June weather, but hey. Some people just didn’t do t-shirts.

Homeless library patrons weren’t uncommon, but this one looked especially beaten down by whatever demons he was fighting.  Emily wanted to ask if he’d slept any time that week, but… she wasn’t sure how he’d react to it. His eyes were bright and clear despite his haggard appearance, and if they flicked away to scan his surroundings every few seconds, Emily wasn’t going to say anything.

Her eyes fell to the thin scar crossing his chin and something niggled in the back of her mind about it, but she couldn’t place it right away.  Movement distracted her as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a book.

“This belongs to a friend of yours, miss,” he told Emily quietly in a soft Southern drawl.  “Could you please pass it along to him?”

The cover clashed badly enough with the dust jacket that Emily started peeling it away out of curiosity, and the man quickly reached out and stopped her.

“Not here, miss.  Don’t look at it here.”  He stepped back a pace and dropped his hands to his sides.

Still, she’d seen the dark star stamped into the red leather of the cover.   _ This one’s Rollins.  He’s got a scar on his jaw,  _ James said in a flash of memory, pointing to a sketch in his notebook.   _ Little diagonal line near his chin, and his eyes don’t quite point the same direction.   _ Her stomach dropped and she suddenly realized who she was talking to.

“You- you’re-”

Rollins shushed her silently, then swallowed and took another step back.  “Just- just give that to him, please. Say it’s a peace offering.” He glanced around the library once more.  “There’s a note tucked in the front. Have him read it. I- I’m sorry for- Thank you, miss.”

Turning, Rollins left without looking back.

Emily looked down at the book in her hands - a small, innocuous thing for all the horrors she knew it contained.  James hadn’t gone into a lot of detail, but he’d told her enough.

Gripping the book tightly, Emily headed for the break room on wooden legs.  She tucked the book into her bag as quickly as she could, then sat heavily in one of the tiny plastic chairs purloined from the children’s section.

Greg came in a moment later, stopping short when he saw Emily with her head in her hands.  “You okay there?”

All she could manage was a noncommittal hum.

“Hey.”  Squatting down in front of her, Greg put a hand on her shoulder.  “If you don’t feel good, you can clock out and head home.”

“I’m fine.”   _ Freaking out and hiding the most important book in the world, but sure, we’ll go with ‘fine.’ _

Greg gave her a dubious look, then sighed.  “I’ve never seen you looking this ashen before, kiddo.  Do I need to call James and have him come get you?”

_ Oh, God, what do I tell him about the book?   _ Emily shook her head.  “Just… give me a few minutes.  I’ll go home if I don’t feel better in ten, okay?”

After giving her another pat on the shoulder, Greg got up, grabbed the water bottle he’d come for, and left.

Fifteen minutes later, Emily headed down the ramp to the sidewalk in front of the library, ignoring the stairs in favor of something she wouldn’t accidentally trip over.  The half-hour walk home passed by in a daze, and when she finally locked the door behind her, she stayed there with one hand pressed to the cool, solid wood for several seconds.

“Em?  Everything okay?”  James walked up on her left, damp yellow gloves on his hands and a towel over his shoulder, still wearing his boots and overalls from work.  His head was tilted to the side and he had a shallow line between his eyebrows as he looked at her with concern.

“I, uh…”  She blinked, cleared her throat, then shuffled her way over to the couch and sat down heavily.  “I saw, uh, Rollins. At the library.”

James swore under his breath.  “Did he hurt you? God, I’ll fuckin’  _ kill _ him if-”

“No, he was… weirdly polite and…”  Without any further preamble, Emily tugged the book out of her bag and held it out to him.  “Here.”

James squinted at the cover, scrunched up his nose, then looked back up at Emily.   _ “Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident? _  Is this supposed to be some sort of bad joke?”

“No, he- the dust jacket.  Take off the dust jacket.” She wagged her fingers at the book.  “It’s… it’s the manual. The red book. The one you told me about.  He gave it to me.”

He dropped it like it had burned him and stumbled back, eyes wide.  The dust jacket floated off to the side with a quiet rustle, and the book landed half-open on the floor, yellow-toned pages bowed against the hardwood.  A bright white piece of paper slid out onto the floor and skated a few feet closer to James. Tidy, compact cursive covered it, spanning the page between the shelter logo at the top and a printed address lining the bottom edge.

“Why did he give you this?” James rasped.

Carefully, Emily reached forward and scooped up the book, closed it before she saw the contents, and set it facedown on the coffee table.  “Said it was a peace offering. Does that mean anything to you?”

He didn’t answer, simply swallowing hard enough that his throat clicked.  Bending down, he picked up the sheet of paper, then steeled himself and quickly read it.  His frown grew deeper the more he read, and finally he pulled off his dish gloves and rubbed his forehead.

Crossing over to the kitchen, he set the sheet on the island and scooped up his phone.  “Hey, J? I need you to do a dead-check on a few names for me.”

“A  _ what?” _

James ignored Emily, positioning his phone over the sheet of paper until JARVIS confirmed he’d captured the names.  A few seconds later, the AI came back with, “They all do appear to be dead, sir.”

“Aggregate the causes of death and extrapolate from there to see if there’s a pattern.  See if any ballistics reports match up with each other.”

Before he’d finished speaking, Emily was on her feet and halfway into the kitchen.  James turned to look at her, then shifted aside so she could read over the sheet of paper.

Two columns of names were framed by a paragraph above and below.  Each name had a single line drawn through it. “Is this…”

“I think so.”

JARVIS interrupted with a polite chime.  “Ballistics reports appear consistent with a .30-40 Krag cartridge fired from a range between two hundred and three hundred meters.  Four of the deaths were from iocane toxicity, and one was an overdose of prescription anticoagulants.”

James hummed quietly and chewed his lip as he reread the blocky, neat handwriting.

“So…”  Emily poked one of the names -  _ Col Vasily Karpov, Cleveland OH _ \- then looked up at James.  “There’s Russian names on here.”

“I was property of the Russian government for decades before they shipped me across the Atlantic in a crate,” James answered flatly.  “Karpov was my primary handler until 1995.”

“And he’s dead, now.”

James toyed with his phone, picking at the edge of the nigh-on-bulletproof case.  “Everyone on this list was responsible for one part or another of my… maintenance.”  He tapped a different name:  _ Catlyn Henderson, San Francisco CA. _  “She liked gothic horror.  Had a thing for Mary Shelley.”

_ I know you have no reason to trust me, _ the block of writing at the top of the sheet read.   _ Lord knows I have too much blood on my hands to ever dream of being a good man again.  I can’t do much for you, but I can give you this. _

Emily skipped down to the last paragraph.

_ We need help.  We need to disappear.  They’re hunting us - they have been since we escaped custody.  Please. I know you don’t owe us anything, Winn, so I’m asking, as one toy soldier to another.  Please. Help us. _

It was signed with a cryptic  _ JR BR,  _ and Emily had to shuffle through her mental index of James’s notes before she placed the initials to names.  “Jack Rollins and Brock Rumlow. Who’s Winn?”

“That’s…”  James cleared his throat and swallowed thickly.  “That’s me. That’s what they used to… when we were on missions, and Rollins and Rumlow were my support team.  When it was just the three of us.”

“They were allowed to do that?”

His eyes were glassy as he stared through the counter.  “No. No, they weren’t.”

Emily resisted the urge to reach out to him - when he got lost in his head like this, it was best to give him a bubble.  He’d only twitch away if she tried to hug him. “So, what do we do?”

It took James nearly a minute to snap out of whatever memory he’d gotten lost in.  He picked up his phone, consciously loosened his hand when the case creaked warningly.  With his free hand, he scratched at a section of his beard that was still growing in. “I… I feel like we should- but- that- that’d put you in danger.  I can’t put you in danger like that.”

“Hm.”  Emily crossed her arms and leaned on the counter, then dropped her chin onto her arms.  “I think I’ve got a pretty good bodyguard. If these guys really need help, well… Rollins doesn’t look like he’s doing that well.  Has a limp, looks like he’s been living rough.”

She rolled her head to the side to see the wary, tense look James was giving her.  “You’d be okay with letting two trained killers live in the basement? There’s a reason those two were Commander and Second on the Tier 1 team.”

“Are they good enough to get the drop on you?”

He bit his lip and frowned at his feet.  “Probably not. I haven’t been training since I escaped, but most of it is instinct at this point.”  After a pause, he added, “I can’t promise you security and safety like I can when it’s just us.”

“You can’t do that whenever I leave the house, either,” Emily pointed out.  “If they wanted to hurt me, they’ve had a million chances. Rollins obviously knows where I work.”  She knew from the tight flinch in James’s eyes that he hadn’t missed the implications of that.

“It’s… your decision.  You make the final call.”

With bravado she wasn’t sure was completely fake, Emily grinned at him.  “Two more broken white boys for me to fix? Sounds like a party.”

James laughed awkwardly and picked up his phone again.  He dialed the number on the bottom of the sheet, leaned back against the counter next to the sink, and pinched the bridge of his nose while he waited for the call to connect.

“Listen carefully,” he said after a few seconds.  “I’m going to give you an address. Knock on the back door in exactly three hours.  You bring anyone else with you besides him, I’ll kill you both where you stand. You leak my location to anyone else, I kill you.  You hurt Emily, I kill you. You will surrender your weapons at the door.”

“Understood,” drifted out of his phone.

James glanced at Emily with tight, worried eyes, then carefully recited their address to the man on the other end of the call.  As soon as he finished, he hung up, set his phone down, and sighed into his hands.

“Come on,” he said after a moment, pushing away from the counter.  “Let’s get the basement set up for guests.”

***

They’d just finished pumping up the air mattress and stretching sheets over it when someone tapped quietly on the back door of the basement.

**hostiles incoming**

**protect handler**

A chill rolled up James’s spine and he closed his eyes so they didn’t bug out of his skull. He didn’t need Emily more nervous and upset than she already was.  After yanking the power cord for the air pump out of the wall, James rolled it into a coil and tucked the pump out of the way next to the couch.

He padded over to the door and paused there for a moment.  Emily watched him warily from next to the workbench in the garage side of the basement.  James’s truck silently stood guard, a hulking mass under a heavy tarp.

With his back against the wall next to the door, James drew a deep breath.  “Identify.”

“Butch Cassidy and the goddamn Sundance Kid,” drifted through the reinforced wood of the door, irritable and tired.  “You gonna let us in?”

**potential hostiles incoming**

**protect handler**

James glanced at Emily once more, clenched and twitched his fist in the way that made the plates on his arm lock into position, and opened the door.

“You know the drill,” he said flatly as two men slipped in.  “Flat on the ground, hands out to the side, palms toward the ceiling.”

Rumlow’s eyes stayed trained on James, glinting out from the shadows under the hood pulled low over his face.  He reached out a hand toward Rollins and helped the taller man to his knees, then to the floor. Clenching his teeth as he moved, Rollins did his best to keep his weight off his left leg.

Stiffly and slowly, Rumlow followed him down and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled his hood back so that it pooled on his shoulders.  His gloved hands scuffed over the short-pile carpet as he rotated his thumbs down, exposing his palms.

“Sidearm on the back of my right hip, knife up my left sleeve,” Rollins quietly said.  “Spare mags in the back right pocket. Brock’s unarmed.”

James relieved Rollins of the two weapons he’d mentioned, then quickly patted him down and didn’t find anything else.  He stepped over to Rumlow and did the same, pausing for a moment, when the man let out a pained hiss. Proceeding more gently, James looked over Rumlow’s gloves to confirm he didn’t have reinforced knuckles or a blade tucked inside.

“Thank you for not lying to me.”  He stood up and took a few steps back.  Ejecting the magazine and chambered round from Rollins’ gun with quick, practiced motions, James sighed and shook his head.  “Hi-Point, Rollins? Really?”

“I’m on a damn budget,” the tall agent shot back, still prone on the floor.  “Desert Eagle ammo is rarer than hen’s teeth when you’re on the lam.”

James hummed dismissively, turning to Emily.  He popped the lone round back into the magazine, then handed that, the gun, and the knife to her.  “Go lock these up like I showed you.”

The door up into the main house closed, shutting the three of them in the basement.

_ Well, if we’re going to have trouble, now’s the time. _

**eliminate threats**

**protect handler**

James closed his eyes and sighed inwardly.   _ The hell do you think I’m trying to do, you useless murdertoddler? _

“The air mattress is more comfortable, or the couch if you’re feeling ambitious.”

Rollins squinted up at him from the floor, then slowly peeled himself off the carpet.  His jaw clenched as he fought down pain from what James strongly suspected was a badly pinched nerve, and he closed his eyes for a moment when he was finally upright, kneeling on the floor.

Rumlow followed suit a moment later, using the outside of his left hand rather than the heel of his palm to push himself up.  He lurched to his feet, took a deep breath, shook his shaggy hair out of his face, and reached both hands out toward Rollins.

After a moment’s hesitation, Rollins took his hands and slowly, carefully, got his feet under him.  They turned to face James, both men falling into parade rest out of training and habit.

Rollins looked… old.  Careworn. He’d always been fastidious about his appearance, more from a need to maintain the intimidating image of STRIKE than from any sense of vanity.  His long, ragged hair was clean and untangled at least, but the tired, weary tilt to his head was unfamiliar. Ramrod-straight shoulders had slid from military posture to something weary and defeated.  New lines traced the contours of his face, far too many for someone his age. Pain pinched at the corners of his eyes.

Everything about Rumlow was sickeningly familiar, down to the intense, laser-focused gaze.  His left hand curled into a claw at his side, stiff and tight under the thin glove covering it.  Thick, shiny, pink burn scars covered his visible skin, and his head rolled slightly with a cocky tilt as he silently challenged James to react.  His left ear was a twisted mess, melted into the side of his head and covered in spiderwebbed red lines. The skin over his face was stretched tight, waxy and pale; parts of his scalp and jaw were shiny and white where hair would no longer grow.  His thick black hair was longer than James remembered it, long enough to flop over his ears and hide the worst of the damage, but Rumlow would never be able to keep a low profile again.

The men stank of adrenaline and… fear.  There was a definite coppery undertone of fear in there, clinging to them like cologne.  James wrinkled his nose, crossed his arms, and took a few steps back as he ran through options in his head.

“Well,” he finally said.  “You two have looked better.”

Rollins looked away as Rumlow barked out a harsh laugh.  When he spoke, his voice rasped with the telltale roughness of damaged tissue.  “I think I look pretty good, all things considered.”

Tipping his head to concede the point, James shrugged.  “You did get a building dropped on your face, so…”

Gesturing vaguely toward James with a stiff, clawed hand, Rumlow bared his teeth in what could have been a smile.  “Gotta say, you’re lookin’ pretty good yourself. You sure you’re the same poor schlub we used to haul outta the cryo-”

**handler override: Rumlow, Brock: attempted**

_ No. _

**handler over-**

_ No! _

**handl-**

Rumlow’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor when James lunged forward and stuffed his metal fist in the man’s face.  His nose yielded with a satisfying, brittle crunch. Rollins lurched to the side as he tried and failed to catch the other man. They ended up on their knees - or, mostly.  Rumlow was half-sprawled on the floor.

**handler ov-**

_ Not my fucking handler. _

**handl-**

“Hey!” Emily barked - James hadn’t heard her come back downstairs.  “The hell is wrong with you?” She grabbed his arm and yanked him back, stepping between him and his two ex-handlers with all the bravery and stupidity of someone who’d never known real danger.

**handler override: Dixon, Emily: confirmed**

“‘s fine, kid.”  Rumlow put a hand on Rollins' shoulder and used the taller man like a crutch to drag himself up off the floor.  He swayed slightly on his knees, and his voice was thick and slurred through the trickle of blood running down his chin.  “Think ‘e d’serves to ge’ in a few licks.”

Stony-faced, Rollins glared up at James and slowly reached an arm back to steady Rumlow.

“Also, think ‘e needed t’know he c’d do tha’.”

That got Rollins to turn around.  “What?”

“We ain’t ‘is handlers no more.”  Rumlow gingerly poked at his swelling nose.  “Ope’ational Direct’ve Whis’ey-Sie’a-Niner-Six.  Can’t hi’ a handler.”

“Christ, he broke it, didn’t he?”  Dragging a handkerchief out of his pocket, Rollins helped him press it to his face.

Emily threw her hands up in a silent  _ what the hell? _ as she stared at James, but moved aside when he jerked his head back toward the truck.  “I leave you three alone for  _ two damn minutes,”  _ she muttered as she walked past.  The door opened and closed a second time as she trotted up the stairs and back into the house.

Rumlow let out a weird sort of pained snort-laugh, then grimaced.  He snurked out a large wad of blood and mucus into the handkerchief, then closed his eyes and tipped his head back.  “Ge’ it over with.” He stiffened when Rollins reached for his face, then steeled himself so he wouldn’t flinch further.

Lining up his fingertips, Rollins reached up and reset Rumlow’s nose with gentle care.  As soon as he was done, he took the handkerchief from Rumlow and used it to catch the last bit of blood at the corner of his mouth.

Emily came back down the stairs with a well-known bag of frozen peas in her hand.  She scuffed over to the two men on the floor, crouched next to them, and held out the peas.  “Here. For the swelling.”

Squinting at her, Rumlow wrapped his hand around the bag and pressed it to his face.  “...thanks.”

“Contrary to all outward appearances, one of us knows how to be a gracious host.”  She threw a meaningful look at James over her shoulder, then stuck out her hand. “Hi.  Emily Dixon, though you probably already knew that.”

Rollins stared blankly at her for several seconds before slowly taking her hand and shaking it.  “Pleasure’s mine, Miss Dixon. Rollins. Uh. Call me Jack.”

“B’ock Rum’ow,” came from behind the bag of peas and was accompanied with an awkward little hand wave.

“Welcome to Emily Dixon’s Home for Wayward HYDRA Veterans.”  Emily slapped her thighs and stood up. “Who’s hungry?”

***

James lay awake in bed, hands folded over his stomach, as he stared up at the little glowing dots on his ceiling.   _ So you have something to stare at, _ Emily had said when she’d come home in April with a quarter-Liter can of phosphorescent paint and a star chart.

What was supposed to be a few hours’ distraction had turned into rediscovering his obsession with space, space travel, and all the science and fiction that went with it.  He now had a whole shelf dedicated to the stuff, below the one of shameless harlequin romances and above the revolving door of history books Emily delighted in having him correct.

Dinner and awkward not-conversation had been made, the little leftovers they had were packed up in the fridge, Rumlow and Rollins were in the basement presumably sleeping.  Or if they were still awake, they hadn’t come up the stairs into the main house or done anything more than use the shower and toilet in the basement bathroom. Emily’s soft snuffles assured him that she, at least, was getting some sleep.

A car rolled by on the street below, the quiet hiss of tires on pavement pulling at James’s attention for a brief second before it faded away.  He considered taking one of the sleeping pills, but he didn’t want to risk any potential grogginess during his next shift at the salvage site. Handling Chitauri wreckage was dangerous enough without being hungover from knockout pills.  Add to that, and he would freely admit he trusted Rumlow and Rollins about as far as Emily could throw them.

A night of no sleep, though, he could handle that.  He’d handled worse.

Swinging his legs out of the bed, he grabbed a set of soft cotton pants and a tank top from the shelf in the nightstand, then tugged them on so he was wearing something more decent than just his underwear.  He snapped the hair tie off his left wrist as he stood up, twisting his hair into a quick, sloppy bun that would keep it out of his eyes for the time being.

He allowed himself a quick check-in on Emily, poking his head in just long enough to confirm that she was okay.  Heading for the stairs, he scratched at his beard and padded down into the kitchen, avoiding each of the creaky spots automatically.

Pausing at the door to the basement, James listened carefully for several seconds before he heard anything.

Someone let out a strangled, frustrated grumble.  “Stop  _ fussing.” _

“I need t’ see if I set it properly.”  There was a pause, then, “Well, your nose is straighter’n you are, now.”

“Oh, like you can talk.”

“Least it ain’t all crooked no more.  Make sure it stays that way, yeah?”

“Fuck  _ off.” _

Another pause, then footsteps.  “Take your dose and get settled in, honey.  I’m fixin’ to see if Winn’s got AC in the basement.  It’s hotter’n a goat’s butt in a pepper patch down here right now.  Need anything while I’m upstairs?”

“Glass of water?”

James stepped away from the door and retreated to the kitchen - chances are Rollins already knew he was there.  Very little got past that man, something that had made him indispensable as a spotter on sniper missions. He pulled down a drinking glass, then, after a moment’s thought, two small crystal tumblers.

As he was running his fingers over the bottles in the cabinet above the sink, the basement door creaked open.  He hadn’t bothered to lock it since it had a lock cylinder on each side and Rumlow was, conveniently, an expert at picking locks.  It’d be an insult more than anything else, at this point.

Rollins closed the door quietly behind him and stood there for a moment with one hand pressed flat to the wood and the other knuckling at the pad of muscle above his hip.  His hair was still damp from his earlier shower, dripping onto his shoulders.

“Leg bothering you?” James asked, finally selecting a bottle of scotch that something told him Rollins would like.  He quickly poured out the glass of water for Rumlow and set it on the kitchen island where Rollins could see it.

“Sciatica.”  Limping over to the island, Rollins pulled out one of the barstools and perched on it with his good side.  “Landed wrong when Brock an’ I were runnin’ down the hospital stairs in full gear plus some extra.”

James flicked a few drops of water into his own drink, then followed another hunch and pulled a few of Emily’s whiskey stones out of the freezer, dropped them into Rollins’ tumbler, and splashed in a few fingers of scotch.  He slid the tumbler over and put the bottle back before leaning forward on his elbows and picking up his own drink. “You said HYDRA’s been trying to kill you.”

Nodding, Rollins swirled his drink around a few times before taking a sip.  “First attempt was at the hospital, sleeper agent tried to slip pentobarbital into Brock’s IV.  Got him out, went to my sister-”

**handler ov-**

_ Shut UP. _

James looked up sharply.  “Your estranged sister who-”

“Yeah.”  Rollins rubbed at his forehead and closed his eyes.  “She was… well. In their sleep. Whole family, plus the toddlers.”  He took a deep breath, then another drink. “Been on the run ever since we found ‘em like that.”

Watching the other man calmly, James simply raised his eyebrows.

“Damaged assets ain’t worth much, not when HYDRA’s circlin’ the wagons.”  Rollins rubbed absently at his left knee. “Cap took out the American branch, but that’s only about a quarter of the total operating force worldwide.”

James didn’t bother trying to supress the mild tremor in his hand as he set his drink down; Rollins knew all his tells at this point.  “Big gamble, staking your lives on whether or not I’m scary enough to keep HYDRA away.”

**protect handler**

Rollins also knew him well enough to catch the half-second space-out every time his programming squawked orders at him.  He huffed out a breathy, quiet laugh, and the whiskey stones clinked as he lifted his glass to point it at James. “Anyone that knows you’re more than just an Ops Academy cadet’s ghost story knows enough about you to run the other way as fast as they damn well can.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“Here we are,” Rollins agreed.  He dragged a hand over his long face.  “HYDRA’s still scramblin’ to cover its own ass, even six months down the line.  Give it another year or so and Rogers’ll have ‘em all rounded up like cattle. Less, if Romanoff’s still helping.”

“You sure he’s gonna leave them alive?”

He gave James a tired look and nodded.  “He’s better than us.”

“Only when it suits him.”

“How… would you know?”

“You ever wonder how old I actually am?” James asked sourly.  “Why they had to stick my brain in the blender so often?”

Rollins wouldn’t look him in the eye.  “I tried not to.”

“I know who I was, before.  Do you want me to tell you?”

After a brief moment, Rollins let out a wet laugh and shook his head, rubbing at his eyes.  “Will it make a difference? I mean, if we were horrible to some rando off the street or if we were horrible to a national icon, it doesn’t change the fact that we were horrible to you.”

_ Oh, if you knew the half of it. _  James kept his mouth shut, though.  He contemplated refilling his tumbler once it was empty.  Not that it would have any effect, but… the taste was nice.

“HYDRA doesn’t have the manpower to try to reclaim you right now,” Rollins said, not bothering to smooth the transition.  “The Russians might try on their own; Putin wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to have you under his control, but they can’t run a snatch-an’-grab op on foreign soil without havin’ the rest of the UN throw a shitfit.”

“So if you’re not here to warn me…”

“We’ve got a debt to pay, Brock an’ I.  What they did to you - what  _ we  _ did to you - that was wrong.  We’ve spent the past few months tryin’ to make it right.”

“You’ve spent the past few months limping around the world killing off your superior officers?” James asked incredulously.

“You ain’t the only one that got his brain fucked with.  Most of the grunts and scientists didn’t know, didn’t care, or were too scared to run.  Couldn’t take chances with the STRIKE teams, though. Induct as needed, indoctrinate, dispose of once their purpose is fulfilled.”

“Hm.  Faustus Method?”

“Turns out cognitive recalibration works on that just as well as it did on Barton.  Widow rang my bell but good, and, well… Brock...”

“Head trauma wouldn’t surprise me, with the rest of his injuries.”  James stepped back and hopped up to sit on the counter next to the sink.  “If there’s any latent programming for either of you, Faustus is easy enough to break if there’s nothing else compounding it.”

The tight pinch in Rollins’s eyes told James what he needed to know.  He studied Rollins for a few more seconds, then nodded toward the basement door.  “What’s he on?”

“Oxy.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Four days’ worth.”  Rollins dropped his head in his hands and braced his elbows against the smooth granite of the bar countertop.  “We’re out of money and out of drugs, and we need…  _ I  _ need a safe place for him to detox.  Only clinics that’ll take him for free without an ID won’t…”  He swallowed and scrubbed a hand over his face before continuing.  “They won’t let me stay with him.”

Something lanced through James’s head and he winced, pressing the heel of his hand between his eyes.  “Criminy,” he hissed. 

_ Rollins down for the count, shrapnel wounds on his chest and face.  Rumlow digging for a med kit, ripping Rollins' tac vest and shirt open to get to the wounds.  A large gold ring strung on the same chain as his dog tags, catching the sunlight and making the Asset tilt his head, remembering- remembering hair that same shade, blue eyes- _

_ The showers, ignoring protesting muscles and the angry red tightness of rapidly healing wounds.  Suds in his hair, plates in his arm locked tight against the water and soap. Rumlow three spots over, staring blindly at the wall, eyes red and sore but not crying, not crying.  Tags and ring swinging as he reaches for his towel. Glint of gold, sunshine on hair- _

Rollins waited patiently for James to muddle his way through the memories.  Finally, James drew in a wet, rattling breath through his nose and tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling.  “How much time and money do you need?”

“I’ll have to get a bead on the street price before we run out.  Once we’ve got enough to wean him off, should be able to get outta your hair in a week.”

“Sure, if you want him writhing in his own personal hell for ten days.  How long do you need for a detox that won’t turn him inside out?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Rollins tossed back the last of his drink.  “A month, give or take.” The whiskey stones rattled in his tumbler as he set it down.  “Just... “ A long pause, then, “Let him have his dignity. Please.”

James looked up at the other man, then down at the last little bit of scotch in his own glass.  He tipped it back, swallowed it down, and gathered up the tumblers. “I can hold off working on the truck until he’s back on his feet, and we’ll store Emily’s bike up here in the interim.”

The other man stayed silent, resting his chin on his clasped hands.  His eyes were half-lidded, circled with heavy bruise-like bags and lined with tension that James could only imagine.

“Jack.”

He looked up at James, startled at the use of his first name.

“We both know that Emily and I aren’t helping you out of some sense of misplaced loyalty.”

Rollins nodded.

“I’ll be honest, she’s the one that made the decision in the first place.”

“She’s your handler?”  They both knew what he meant.

After a moment, James dipped his chin to his chest.

“She’s good to you?”

“Actively does her best to avoid giving me orders.  Immediately countermands it when she realizes it happened.”

Rollins sighed heavily and pressed his hands against his face.  “That… that’s good. That’s real good, Winn. I’m- I’m glad you found her.”

Smiling despite himself, James reached up and rubbed his fingertips over the seam between metal and flesh running down the back of his shoulder.  “Me too, pal. Me, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for references to irresponsible drug use and stress/grief driven relapse, also for mild violence toward the end.

Brock shuffled into the kitchen with the type of sluggish exhaustion that made Emily want to herd him right back downstairs and into bed.  He grunted something resembling a  _ good morning _ at her, grabbed a glass from the drying rack on his way to the fridge, and squinted blearily at the stainless steel as he pressed the glass under the water nozzle.

He drained the glass, filled it up, and drank it down a second time before setting it on top of the fridge and scuffing his way over to the couch.  Emily looked up from her notes as Brock carefully lowered himself down on the couch, settling in on his side. He squeezed one eye shut and directed a cranky glare at the open windows.

Setting her notebook on the coffee table, Emily got up and twisted the rod for the blinds until there wasn’t any direct sunlight landing on Brock’s face.  He mumbled a thanks, then another as she grabbed the folded blanket from the back of her armchair and tossed it over to him.

“Jack’s out for a run,” she told him as she settled back into her chair.  “James is at work, he’ll probably be back around two.”

“Time’s it?” Brock slurred, muffled through the pillow he’d pressed his face into.

“Little after eleven.  Want something to eat?”

He grunted something unintelligible but still identifiable as a no.  Two weeks of nothing but rice, toast, bananas, oatmeal, and applesauce were taking their toll on his appetite.

Emily watched him for a bit, empathy pinching her face as she took in the disheveled, miserable man across from her.  Despite the late June heat, he still wore sweatpants, a long-sleeve shirt, and only went without his gloves on a good day.  His feet and face were the only things Emily saw bare on a regular basis.

He wiggled around a bit, finally ending up on his back with an arm draped over his face.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” he mumbled after a bit.  “Thought you were at the library today.”

“Nope, traded shifts with Alice so that she could go to her son’s baseball game tomorrow.  And I’m trying to figure out some of the missing information in James’s file. There’s blanks in the data and it’s annoying me.”

“He okay with you doing that?”

She shrugged.  “He never said not to.”

“Yeah, but did you ask him?”  Brock propped himself up on an elbow and frowned slightly as he looked at her.  “And did you make it clear he’s allowed to say no, if he doesn’t want you to know certain things?”

“What- what do you-  _ allowed?” _

“You’re his handler, now, right?  According to his programming?”

Confused, Emily nodded.  She looked down at her notebook, then back up at Brock.  “Why would I need to tell him he’s allowed to… say no…” She trailed off and squeezed her eyes shut, horrified.

“Emily,” Brock said gently, “Has he ever explicitly said no for anything at all?  I don’t mean deflection or asking you not to push him, I mean actually refusing to do something.”

Eyes still closed, she shook her head.  “He… it’s obvious when he doesn’t want to do something.  So I just… I don’t push him, if I can see he doesn’t…”

“And that’s why he’s stuck around this long,” he reassured her.  He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position and rearranged the blanket around his shoulders, grimacing against the aches and pains.  “Hell, he bought you a damn  _ house. _  He’s happier here an’ now than I’ve ever seen him before.”

“He was a goddamn prisoner of war, before.”

Tilting his head to the side to concede the point, Brock dragged a hand through his hair.  He pulled a face and wiped his hand on his pants. “Just… you should know. Being his handler, it gives you complete power over him if you choose to use it.  Means whatever he’s trying to protect you from, you could overrule that with one word. Means you could order him into your bed if-”

“Why the  _ fuck _ would I-”

“I’m just sayin’.”  His eyes were cold as he looked over at her.  “I didn’t let it happen under my command, and the one jagoff that tried, I took him out back an’ shot him then and there.  But if you make it an explicit order, he literally can’t say no. Consent isn’t a  _ thing _ for him.”

Emily stared blankly at him for several seconds, dumbstruck.

“I’m makin’ sure you know better than to abuse your power and turn him into a slave - of  _ any _ type.”  He laced his fingers together between his knees.  “It’s not like hypnotizing your friend and making him put on nail polish or lipstick.  If you ordered him to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, he would. Whether or not he wanted to, he would, because you ordered him to.  You have complete power over another human being, ‘cause of the horrible monsters that turned him into a living weapon. He’s more human now than I’ve ever seen him before, and you have no fuckin’  _ idea _ how happy that makes me an’ Jack, but his programming is still there.”

Stunned and sickened, Emily closed her notebook and slid it onto the coffee table.  She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

“Wi- James is luckier than I can put into words, with how he ended up with you instead of some sicko on a power trip.  You give him choices, you let him be a person again.”

“Because he  _ is.” _

“He wasn’t always.”  Closing his eyes, Brock dropped his chin to his chest.  “Couple’a times out of the… I don’t know if he told you about the chair and the halo, but… there were a few times they finished zapping his brain and there wasn’t enough left in there to be a person anymore.

“I just want to make sure you understand - he’s not just a POW with PTSD up to his eyeballs.  The only reason he’s still alive is because of whatever vitamin juice they pumped into his veins.”

“Zola did that,” Emily said before she could stop herself.  “Back when he was… back during the War. The first time they had him.”

Frowning, Brock looked up at her.  “Zola? Bastard’s been haunting a mainframe for longer than Winn’s been alive.”

If they didn’t know - if James hadn’t told them who he was or his true age - there was probably a reason.  Emily pressed her lips together, looked down at the floor, then quickly shook her head.

Brock side-eyed her for a few more seconds before dropping the issue.  “Just make sure he’s okay with you poking around in his past before you get too far into it, okay?  There’s some things about him that I wish I didn’t know. Things you can’t unsee, things that civilians shouldn’t have to live with.  If he hasn’t told you about them, it’s for a reason.”

“Who do you think helped him through his nightmares for the past six months?” Emily shot back bitterly.  “It took him three weeks to actually  _ sleep _ versus that weird sort of hibernate-mode power down thing he used to do.  First night he fell properly asleep, he woke up two hours later screaming so loud that my neighbors called the cops.”

“And he didn’t tell you what the nightmare was about?”

“No, because he couldn’t speak for two days.”

Brock had the good grace to look somewhat shocked.

“He has seizures if he eats strawberries,” Emily added, suddenly angry and  _ really  _ needing to drive home the point that she wasn’t some helpless civilian rando.  “Gluten gives him allergic reactions bad enough that we keep epi pens in the kitchen.  Sometimes his anxiety is so bad that he has to prowl the house the whole damn night, keeping watch.  He has panic attacks if you tell him to ‘prep’ something. I am  _ fully _ aware of what he has to live with now.”

“And are you really sure that you’re willing to take James’s choice to protect you from that away from him?  Looks to me like he just wants to move on and live his damn life already. God knows he deserves it, after everything HYDRA did to him.”

Not waiting for a response, Brock shrugged off the blanket and tottered to his feet.  “Hold that thought, I gotta go shit my brains out. Back in twenty.”

While the worst of the withdrawals were over, he was still fighting down a few persistent symptoms that refused to go away.  Emily dragged her hands over her face as Brock’s footsteps retreated down the stairs into the basement.

The front door opened a moment later and Jack came in, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, arms and legs flushed from being out in the sun.  He waved hello at Emily, then pulled his headphones out of his ears. “G’mornin’, Miss Dixon. How’s Brock doin’?”

“He’s downstairs.  Said he had to go to the bathroom.”

Jack let out a small sigh, then padded into the kitchen.  He opened the fridge, grabbed the huge plastic jar of applesauce, and snagged a spoon from the dish rack on his way towards the basement door.  “Thanks for keepin’ an eye on him while I was out.”

“Sure thing.”

Alone once again, Emily looked down unhappily at the notebook on the coffee table.  James had his own now, several of them, in fact, and usually kept them locked in a safe in his room.  This one was the collection of her own research and observations; he knew about it, but he never asked to read it and usually pretended it didn’t exist.

The red book sat tucked under a false panel in the gun safe, hidden from anyone who didn’t already know it was there.  Emily hadn’t read it yet; they’d locked it up and never spoken of it again out of mutual silent agreement.

Maybe it was time, though.

There had to be something in there to break the last few pieces of his programming, the last few tendrils worming their way through his brain.  Maybe it could be reverse engineered, if the process to put it in place was documented well enough… not that she had any desire to read about torture and dehumanization and… everything, but...  Removing Emily’s designation as a handler wasn’t enough. They’d have to completely break his dependence on having a handler at all, or his programming would actively seek out and latch on to the first authority figure it came across.

Voices drifted up from the basement, and Emily buried her face in her knees while she thought over her conversation with Brock, and how to bring it up with James.  He wasn’t going to be happy, to say the least. Even if the solution turned out to be simple and easy, going anywhere near that stupid little book made his face pinch up like it had whenever he’d put weight on his injured knee.

She still had a few more hours to figure it out, though.  Scooping up her notebook, she headed upstairs to tuck it away in a box of identical notebooks from grad school.  She could figure this out, she thought as she wiggled the spiral binding into place, interlaced with its neighbors.  She  _ had _ to.

***

James waved over his shoulder as he jogged down the steps down to the sidewalk from Keith’s place, having just dropped off the veteran’s weekly groceries.  Emily no longer needed to do her delivery shifts, with as much money as James had stolen from HYDRA, but she’d felt bad enough about leaving her regulars in the lurch that she’d kept bringing them food on her own.

It wasn’t too far out of James’s way to swing by the grocer and then Keith’s apartment once a week on his way home from Manhattan.  He’d even taken to cooking casseroles that would freeze and reheat well, trading fresh meals for empty cookware ready to be refilled.

The sleeping Marine on the street corner got a tidy roll of bills small enough in denomination to remain inconspicuous, and his friend tipped his hat in salute as James walked past.  It wasn’t much, and James often wished he could do more… A small twist of tension in his chest had eased a few weeks ago when the Times ran an article on Captain America and the Falcon pushing through reforms for the VA.  It was a step in the right direction, at the very least.

The walk home passed uneventfully.  Children chattered with each other as they swarmed out of school, and James stepped to the side to let a particularly large and loud group pass.  Best to wait a few extra seconds than have to swim upstream through the only life form on the planet wrigglier than an ornery eel.

He rubbed absently at his left shoulder as he started walking again, working his fingertips into the sore muscle stretched thin over metal fibers.  A few teenagers ambled past, and James listened in with half an ear, catching a word that nearly made him stop short.

_ Fireworks. _

**mission complication**

_ No shit. _

Pulling out his phone, he checked the date and swore inwardly - he should have been paying more attention.  Half a week until the Fourth of July. He didn’t know whether to expect Rumlow and Rollins to have trouble with fireworks, but… he also didn’t know if  _ he _ would.  The heavy crump of mortar fire filled his head and he fixed a stony gaze on the sidewalk in front of him, speeding up his steps to get home faster.

By the time he got to the brownstone, his hands were shaking badly enough that it took three tries to line up his key with the lock cylinder.

He opened the door to see Rollins nursing a generous glass of something amber-colored and fragrant, slouched in the armchair that wasn’t Emily’s.  He flicked his eyes up as James walked in and raised a few fingers in greeting, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Drinking my booze without me, Rollins?” James joked, aiming for a light tone and thankfully succeeding.  He could push his own problems back for the moment if anyone needed his help.

Rollins set his glass down and leaned forward on his knees.  His hair hung loose around his face, soft and wavy without product to tame it.

Frowning, James headed toward him and stopped a few feet away.  “Something wrong?”

“Nothin’ you can fix.”

“Sure about that?”  He crouched down, tilting his head to catch Rollins’s eye.  “I’ve got a very expansive skill set-”

“Not the time, Winn.”

Startled, James rocked back on his heels and stared at Rollins.  The other man put his head in his hands, then after a moment, pulled out his phone and unlocked it.  He handed it over without another word.

James scanned the article on the page, and- oh.

It was an obituary for Gary and Janine Rumlow.

“He’s downstairs,” Rollins said quietly.  “Didn’t have the heart to say no when he said he needed a hit.”

Locking the screen, James gave the phone back.  “Were they close?”

The other man laughed, low and bitter.  “They took one look at me, tripped over the ‘Southern’ and faceplanted on the ‘gentleman.’  Disowned him in the next breath.” He sat back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. “He’s spent the past sixteen years looking t’ reconcile, and then…”  Rollins snapped his fingers. “Gone.”

“I can pass a message through JARVIS, if you need protective detail on-”

“That’s all we had left,” Rollins interrupted, his voice rough.  “Never knew my parents, Cassie an’ I just bounced around foster homes until we were old enough to go our separate ways.  Brock’s an only child. No one left for us to lose.”

Seemingly nonsensical images flashed through James’s head - a plastic jar of years-old protein powder shoved in the back of the cabinet, Emily’s face when he’d asked about her mother.  The quiet clunk of a mug set down too quickly on the shelf in a thrift store, Emily blinking away tears that James pretended not to notice. The cheerful smile Emily used like armor dealing with energetic pipsqueaks in the children’s section of the library.  Emily’s reluctance to talk about her family.

**protect handler**

“Where is-”

“Upstairs.”  Rollins picked up his glass and took a pull from it.  “She skedaddled to give Brock some privacy.”

**protect handler**

_ I don’t think it was Brock’s privacy she was interested in. _

Without another word, James rose and took the stairs two at a time.  He left his jacket draped over the railing at the top of the stairs, then took a quick glance around the second floor - his room to the right, hers to the left - before heading to the third floor.

He found Emily curled up in a ball in her library, forehead pressed to her knees, heels digging into the soft cushion of the overstuffed chair.  A box he’d never seen before sat on the low table in front of her, the lid still firmly taped in place.  _ Harriet  _ was written on it in bold, dark letters, someone else’s handwriting.

**mission parameter: designation: unknown**

“Em?”

She sniffed but didn’t look up.  James padded into the room and knelt next to the chair, then reached out and touched her shoulder.

As soon as he did, her hand rose up and wrapped around his, small and delicate against the rough calluses and square lines of his own fingers.  James knew better than to press, better than to ask the multitude of questions on the tip of his tongue.

_ Thin as a rail, slouching like he’s Atlas carrying the weight of the world.  Eyes red, hands shaking. Refuses a hug, so… sit next to him. That’s… that’s all you can do. _

James blinked away the muddled memory and settled in to provide whatever comfort he could through his presence.

Finally, Emily’s head popped up and she dropped her chin on top of her knees.  She stared at the opposite wall with red-rimmed eyes. Her hair had grooves in it from her fingers where they’d pushed the dense curls into clumps.

“Sorry,” she croaked quietly.

“Hey, no.  None of that.”  James scooted around in front of her and waited for her to look him in the eye.  “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on. But I know what happened with Brock’s family, and I know that brought back something that hurt you.  Don’t apologize for that. If you wanna talk, I’m here, but that’s up to you.”

After a moment she nodded, then clumsily wiped a hand under her nose.  “Can you, uh. The box. I- I think I need… There’s a Goodwill on the way to your subway stop, right?”

“Yeah.  Want me to take it there?”

**mission difficulty: 1/10**

Emily nodded again.  Closing her eyes, she drew in a noisy breath through her nose.  “I dunno why I hung onto it so long.”

“It’s hard to let go of things that change our lives.”

“Oh, God,” she choked out, followed by something that could have been a laugh.  “Truer words, buddy.”

James gave her a wobbly smile and stood, then reached for the box.  Stopping himself halfway, he looked back at Emily. “I’m gonna put this in the room down the hall for now, then I’ll get it over to Goodwill tomorrow.  Sound good?”

He waited for her reluctant nod before scooping up the box and taking it away.  When he came back into the library, he crouched down in front of her again and pulled her forward by the shoulders.  “C’mere. Hug time.”

Once Emily’s breathing had evened out, James pulled her to her feet and kept an arm around her shoulder as they left the library.  “Let’s get downstairs, yeah? I think it’s time for me to do some surrogate stress baking for all y’all.”

“Stop picking up Jack’s grammar,” Emily grumbled, swatting him on the arm as he led her over to the stairs.  “You’re a disgrace to Brooklyn.”

**order acknowledged**

**comply**

“I’m a disgrace to lots of places.” James threw Emily a smirk over his shoulder as he trotted down the stairs.

Rollins’ glass was washed and set to dry in the rack next to the sink by the time they got to the kitchen.  After a moment’s thought, James went for the cupboard holding all the normal-people ingredients and started pulling out jars and bags until he had what he needed.

Emily settled into place in her armchair, wrapping herself up in a thick, heavy afghan with the NYU crest on it.  She smiled up at James when he handed her a cup of iced tea, and busied herself on her phone as he whisked together his dough.

James was rolling the dough into submission on a floured countertop when Rollins and Rumlow trudged up from the basement.  He nodded over to the pitcher of iced tea and the glasses next to it, and had to bite back a smile at the way Rollins’ eyes lit up.

“You’re okay workin’ with that?” Rumlow asked groggily, pupils still working their way back up to normal dilation.  He kept a hand on Rollins’ shoulder as if to steady himself and followed the other man over to the couch without seeming to realize he was doing it.

“So long as I don’t actually eat it, I’ll be fine.”  James picked up a circular cookie cutter and started punching out rounds.  “Hey, JARVIS, can you get the oven preheating?”

The oven beeped in confirmation and started whirring quietly as the electronics kicked on.

“You have JARVIS in your house?” Rollins asked, incredulous.

“Just the stuff with wifi.”  Jerking her thumb over at the kitchen, Emily ticked off each item on her other hand.  “Oven - because James cooks so damn much - and fridge, TV, and somehow James managed to jury-rig the stereo so that JARVIS can possess it like a poltergeist.”

“A benevolent poltergeist, if I may,” drifted primly from the speakers.  Rumlow squinted at the stereo suspiciously, then dismissed it and turned his focus back to his tea.

James picked up his rolling pin again and scattered more flour over the dough before balling up the scraps and rolling it out a second time.  “I really hope Stark beats Amazon to market with a smart speaker. I haven’t been that impressed with Alexa so far.”

“You’re spoiled rotten, buddy.”

He shrugged in agreement.  “Rumor has it Google’s got something in the pipeline, but realistically, Stark’s the only one with the software to make anything useful.  Anything else is just gonna be more of a novelty, like a bluetooth speaker with a few extra bells and whistles.”

From Rollins’ appraising look, James knew the other man had picked up on the intentional inanity.   _ Don’t ruin this for me,  _ James silently prayed.   _ We need this, right now. _

To his relief, Rollins jumped into the conversation and started telling stories about mishaps when SHIELD had first installed their AIs in their main facilities.  Rumlow occasionally jumped in with a detail here or there, more frequent as his lucidity returned.

Emily was gesticulating wildly and ranting about what was apparently a crime against information systems, how could SHIELD possibly think  _ that _ organizational structure was a good idea.  Smiling to himself, James started spooning Nutella onto each of the circles, and laughed at one particularly snarky comment from Rumlow.  He started folding edges over the filling and assembled everything into an impressive number of cookies, then stuffed it all in the oven to bake.

The conversation shifted while James busied himself cleaning up the kitchen, and Emily winced and groaned in all the right places as Rumlow and Rollins described the green recruits they’d been tasked to train one summer.

The oven timer beeped while Brock was in the middle of telling Emily how he’d broken his collarbone sparring with a rookie.  James shifted everything to a cooling rack for a bit, then plated the still-warm cookies and brought them over to the coffee table on a huge platter.

“Here,” he said as he set down the platter.  “Figured we could all use some feel-good food.”

He’d just barely sat down and was handing one of the triangular cookies to Emily when the stereo crackled and  _ whined.   _ The sound lanced white-hot through James’s head and he clapped his hands over his ears.  The world tilted to the side and suddenly he was on the floor, curled in a ball, trying to ignore the-

Words.  They were words.  Round with the cumbersome vowels of Russian, flaying more and more of James away with each new syllable.

They didn’t seem to be dulled by the screaming that it took James a moment to place as his.  Something crashed, and a vague, disjointed flash of  _ oh, hell, not the coffee table _ passed through his head before it was silenced.

Blessed blackness unfolded behind his eyes, and James- he- the Asset- he-

he-

it-

***

Brock lunged for the stereo as soon as the words started, yanking the power cord clean out of the wall.  Less than a second later, the TV clicked on and the raspy, metallic voice spoke out of  _ that,  _ coupled with a pixelated weird green blob with two big, dark  _ oh god are those eyes. _

Swearing vividly, Brock scrambled towards James and started  _ attacking him.   _ Emily screamed, threw her half-full glass of tea at the man (missed horribly), and tried desperately to remember what James had told her to do if- if- what…

What was Brock  _ doing? _

Strong hands wrapped around Emily’s arms before the glass even hit the floor and bounced into the dining room with a hollow  _ donk donk donk _ .  “Wait,” Jack hissed in her ear.  “Just  _ wait.” _

Struggling against him, Emily threw her head back and felt a brief mixture of satisfaction and nausea when she felt the impact against Jack’s throat.  He didn’t let go, though, holding her fast while she bit, kicked, and did her dead level best to wriggle out of his grip.

Brock ripped James’s shirt off, pulled out a knife, and began repeatedly stabbing James in his metal arm.

Yanking her knees up to her chest to try to drop out of Jack’s arms, Emily swore when he simply stepped forward and held her tighter.

“Please.”  His voice was hoarse in her ear, and he coughed a few times before continuing.  “Just  _ trust me.   _ We’re not trying to-”

The TV kept speaking, strange robotic tones in a language that sounded like Russian.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck-” accompanied metal plates and panels flying every which way as Brock ripped James’s arm apart.

James wouldn’t stop screaming.

“Where  _ is it?”  _ Brock demanded.

“Shoulder.  In the shoulder.”

Brock swore again and shot a frantic look at the TV before diving back in, ripping components out as quickly as he could.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Emily shouted.  “What are you-”

One of Jack’s hands came up to clamp over her mouth.  He growled when she bit his finger, then pressed his hand back down.

“I promise you, we’re not-”

Another word crackled out of the speakers, with the heavy finality of the end of a sentence.  What little of Brock’s skin that was left unscarred blanched and he scrambled away from James, knife held in front of himself protectively.

Jack let out a string of curses that Emily wasn’t entirely sure were even in English and shoved her hard toward the front door.  “Go!  _ Run!” _

Stunned, Emily tripped over her own feet and spent a second sprawled in a heap before she rolled over onto her back.

James slowly uncurled himself and rose to his knees, but-

It wasn’t James.

Something was different about his eyes, the way they stared  _ through _ her.

Brock shuffled between James and Emily.  “Get outta here, kid. Go.”

“I- what-”  Speaking took more effort than it should have.

“Go!”

James- no.  The Soldier said something in Russian, his predatory stare freezing Emily to the spot.

The voice in the TV answered him, and quicker than Emily had ever seen anyone move, he was on his feet and spinning around.

Brock went flying and crashed into the kitchen island.  He groaned, his head rolled to the side, and he didn’t get up.

“Fuck- go!   _ Go!”   _ Jack picked up a chunk of the coffee table and winged it at the Soldier to get his attention.  “Get outta here, Dixon!”

The Soldier snarled and rounded on Jack.

Emily’s limbs felt like they were filled with lead; she somehow managed to roll to her feet, but rather than run for the door, some unseen force marched her into the kitchen.

_ Cognitive recalibration. _

It’s what James said broke him free of a good portion of his programming the first time they’d met.   _ A hard enough hit in the head will reset any brainfuckery. _

Jack’s harsh breathing drew her attention for a moment as she picked up what she was looking for, and she glanced over to see him stumble back and land painfully on the floor.  A cry of pain shot out of him when his bad leg twisted under him and he dragged himself back, away from the Soldier.

“JARVIS!  Paint it black!”

The soldier’s head swung toward Emily as the electricity left the brownstone with a dull hum.

Jack barked something that sound like  _ Spootneek _ , and the Soldier turned back to him.  Apparently whatever he’d tried to do didn’t work, because the color drained from Jack’s face and his eyes went wide.

Emily ran forward, raised the cast iron griddle as high as she could, and slammed it into the Soldier’s head.  The hollow  _ clonk _ nearly made her gag.  The Soldier staggered a step, then crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

Chest heaving, Emily brandished the griddle at Jack.  “What,” she panted, “the hell… was that.”

The lanky ex-soldier stared dumbly at her for several seconds.  “‘Paint it black?’”

“Contingency plan codeword, cuts the house power and puts it on lockdown.   _ What the hell just happened.” _

“A petite little librarian just took down the world’s deadliest assassin with cookware is what just happened,” Brock gritted out.  He pressed a hand to the back of his head and hissed. “Am I still high? Someone please tell me I just hallucinated that.”

“You’re on opiates, not LSD,” Jack shot back without skipping a beat.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then started to get up. After a pained grunt, he flopped back to the floor.  “Okay. No. Nope. I ain’t movin’ for a quick minute.”

_ “You attacked him!” _

“No, HYDRA attacked him.”  Brock still hadn’t moved from his sprawl against the kitchen island.  “That was Zola’s voice, and those were-”

“Control words,” Emily finished, the warmth leaving her body in a sudden, sickening chill.  “The control words from the book, the ones he wouldn’t tell me about.”

“He’s got a switch buried in his arm.  Sends a shock to his brain, resets him.”  Waving a hand in (mostly) James’s direction, Brock pulled his knees up and leaned forward on them.  “I was trying to get to it before they finished the activation sequence, see if I could short-circuit it.”

Pieces of coffee table, cookies, and James’s arm lay scattered haphazardly around the living room.  The late afternoon light was already fading, diffused through the sheer curtains that covered every window.  One of the armchairs was on its side, knocked askew in the scuffle.

Brock closed his eyes and gently leaned his head back against the kitchen island.  Jack finally managed to gracelessly peel himself off the floor and hobble over to the couch to lay down on it.

James wasn’t moving.

Emily set the griddle down on the floor as gently as she could, and knelt by James’s prone form.

“Careful, kid,” Brock mumbled.  “Dunno which one is gonna wake up.”

“Either way, we’ll deal with it.”  Settling in as comfortably as she could at James’s side, Emily braced herself to wait.

It didn’t take long, in the end.  Less than five minutes after she’d nearly cracked her cast iron over his thick skull, he groaned deep in his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and wrinkled his nose.

“Hey, buddy, you with us?”

James didn’t respond for several seconds, using the time instead to clumsily drag his right hand over his face.  He cursed under his breath, rolled onto his side, and rubbed at the spot where Emily had nailed him with the griddle.  Cracking one eye open, he squinted up at Jack.

“Your Russian is still fucking  _ terrible,”  _ James growled, then closed his eyes.

“Blow me.”

Pointing over in Brock’s general direction, James couldn’t completely hide the twitch in his lips.  “Nope, that’s his job.” After a moment, he wrapped his arms around his head. “Fuck, what did you  _ hit  _ me with?  My head’s killing me.”

Emily couldn’t completely stifle the strangled, hysterical giggle that broke loose.  The giggle quickly turned into a hitch in her breath, then a choked sob, and then her eyes were prickling and she couldn’t breathe.

Mismatched arms - one squishy and warm, one skeletal and pokey - wrapped around her and held her tight.  A moment later, Brock scuffed over on his knees and pulled them both into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” James was saying into her hair, over and over again.  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Jack?”  Brock’s raspy voice cut through everything else.

“Mm?”

“We gotta call that in.”

There was a pause, then Jack said, “This is Rollins.  Get me Romanoff. Authorization code Alpha Foxtrot Six Two Four.”  Emily looked up and saw him holding his phone to his ear.

“Do I wanna know why you got a direct line to-”

Jack cut James off without even looking at him or acknowledging the words.  “We just had a security breach, if you can call somethin’ that fell outta the ugly tree an’ hit every damn branch on the way down just to incorporeally possess the fuckin’ stereo a ‘security breach.’”

There was a pause, then, “Thanks.  Oh, and… could you have JARVIS turn the lights back on?”


	8. Chapter 8

“Anything we need to be prepared for tonight?” James asked as he pulled a pair of disposable gloves on.  Hamburger meat was all well and good, until it got caught between the plates of his metal hand. At least Rumlow hadn’t ripped his hand apart; he could deal with out-of-spec tolerances in his shoulder and bicep for a few days until things finally finished recalibrating, but in his fingers… no.  Just no.

“Nearest place doing commercial fireworks is the barges for Macy’s, right?”  Rumlow didn’t even look up from where he was sprawled out on the couch absorbing the morning’s sunshine.

Worcestershire sauce - two tablespoons plus another why-not splash - quickly darkened the ground beef waiting in a large bowl.  “Far as I know.” Potato starch, salt, and pepper finished it out, and James dug his hands into the gooey mess to mix it all up.  “Could be people setting off illegal ones in the back alley, though.”

**mission complication possible**

“I know.  Earplugs are usually enough for Jack to handle the smaller ones.  It’s the percussive thuds that really get him, though. He likes watching them, just has trouble with the shock waves.”

**mission complication likely**

“Should be far enough away that it’s dissipated by then.  Plus, there’s a lot of buildings between Spanish Harlem and the barges, so that’ll help.  You think he’ll be okay?” Shaping each patty carefully, James sandwiched them between sheets of wax paper and set them on a cookie sheet to go in the fridge until they were needed.  His gloves came off with two wet snaps and he dropped them in the trash before washing the remnants of beef juice off his hands.

Rumlow shrugged, an odd motion with his shoulders pressed up against the cushions of the couch.  “If he’s not, he’s not. We’ll get through it either way. So long as no one lights up a sparkler in my face, I’m good.”  Snuggling deeper into the couch, Rumlow stretched his arms above his head and hooked his elbows over the armrest. “Barbecue on the roof.  I’m actually lookin’ forward to this.”

James grinned at him as he started pulling out the ingredients for the bun recipe he’d found online.  “I think we need this, the four of us. Given all we’ve been through, Independence Day means a little more this year than it normally does.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”  As Rumlow sat up, then picked up his glass of water to take a drink, the plain gold band on his finger clinked quietly against it, drawing James’s attention away from the flour jar he was elbow-deep in.

“You’re wearing your ring.”  James couldn’t help the soft smile he gave the other man.

Huffing quietly, Rumlow nodded and self-consciously dragged his left hand through his hair.  The fingers would always be curled and discolored, skin drawn tight from the keloidal tissue, and Rumlow wore gloves to hide them from sight more often than not.  But seeing him now, spinning the ring around and around with the fingers on his other hand, scars in plain view, James fervently hoped that Rumlow had taken one more step on the path of recovery.

“Hey.  I’m happy for you.”  James set down the flour jar and faced Rumlow full on.  “Really, I am.”

“Can’t hide forever.”  The words came out flippantly, but they both knew the deeper meaning behind them.

“So,” James began as he whisked together his flour mixture.  “I’ve been meaning to ask. About Romanova, you know.”

“And you specifically waited until Jack’s out of the house.”

Shrugging noncommittally, James stirred in his milk replacer.  He had waited, though. While Rollins wouldn’t lie to him, James knew full well that the other man had  _ plenty  _ on his plate being his husband’s caregiver through detox.  James didn’t need to tear open old wounds when Rollins was just beginning to heal again.

Rumlow sank back into the couch with a heavy sigh.  “She caught up with us trying to take out the same target.  Took Lukin off our hands - yes, he’s dead, we confirmed it before we moved on - and told us where to find the book.”

“She- she  _ told you _ where-”  James felt like he was choking on air.

“Breathe, kid.  Outside of this house, she’s the last one alive who knows that thing even exists, let alone what it’s for.  Told us to go retrieve it and cross off Karpov in the same op, then use the book as a bargaining chip to buy ourselves amnesty.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, James pressed his lips together in a thin line while he considered what to say.  Finally, he asked tightly, “Why not go straight to the Avengers?”

“Cap’s got a bit of a grudge.”  Rumlow fixed the ceiling with a flat, cold look.  “Can’t say I blame him, if we’re honest here.”

“So, you came to me, instead.”

“Out of our available options…”  He shrugged and exhaled sharply.

Picking up his whisk, James stirred in the last of the wet ingredients and kept his focus on the bowl in front of him.

Before either of them said anything else, the front door opened and Emily nudged it wider with her knee as she wrestled her bike through the doorway.  She rolled it over to its usual place up against the windows in the living room, just to the left of the door, and waved a quick hello to both men.

“Hey, Em, do you feel like sesame or poppy seeds on… the…”  James trailed off as she clattered up the stairs and stared after her for a few seconds.  After a moment, he turned to Rumlow. “That, uh, that’s not...”

The other man shook his head.  “Nah, it ain’t just you. She’s acting weird.”  He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Go talk to her, Winn.  Get your stuff in the oven, I’ll pull it out for you when JARVIS tells me it’s done.”

Mumbling out his thanks, James finished doling the dough into the cups in the baking pan, topped them with the first seeds that came to hand, then shoved it all in the oven.  He trusted JARVIS to make sure it baked correctly; the AI had found him the recipe, after all. After washing his hands, James headed for the stairs.

***

Emily set the last of her new books down on the table in her library, then headed down the hall and into the spare room where they kept the gun safe.  “Seven-four-one-eight,” she said under her breath as she punched in the numbers on the keypad. 

Jack’s pistol and knife were still there, along with a sleek silver number with well-worn brown grip plates and  _ COLT  _ stamped on the side.  She snaked her hand past the two guns and triggered the release catch for the false panel; the red book still felt just as strange in her hands as it had the first time around when she pulled it out into the daylight.

As she scuffed back over into her library, she cracked it open and flipped to the page she’d bookmarked the day before.  Google had only gotten her so far when it came to one passage, and she knew she had to learn more about telomeres before she could understand the scientist’s notes.

When she entered the room, something prickled on the back of her neck.  Emily looked up and nearly jumped out of her  _ goddamn skin _ when she saw James standing there by the window with his arms crossed and eyes fixed on the stack of books in front of him.

_ Well, shit. _

“I thought I asked for that thing to be kept locked up.”  

“James, I-”

“Why do you have it?”  Without waiting for her to respond, James closed his eyes.  “And how long have you been reading it?”

“I- I haven’t been…”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Emily, I’m a spy. It used to be my job to figure people out.  I know you’ve been avoiding me since I got activated by Zola, and honestly, I was going to let it go.  But… please don’t lie to me. I can tell when you do.”

_ Don’t lie to me. _

The words echoed through Emily’s head in- in  _ his _ voice, from Before.  Her shoulders stiffened and she closed the book with a snap.  “I’m trying to get this figured out without bothering you. I know you don’t like talking about-”

“Without  _ bothering  _ me?  That right there-”  James stabbed a finger toward the book.  “-contains my  _ brain,  _ Emily.  That’s the only evidence of decades of my life that I had stolen from me.  I’m pretty fucking sure I’d want to be  _ bothered  _ with something like that.”

“And I was going to figure this stuff out, put the book back, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about it!”

“Worry about  _ what?” _

_ “Me!” _

James blinked, momentarily stunned.  “Why would I worry about… why should…”

Tossing the book onto the table, Emily crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame.  “Because maybe I’m worried about what’s going to happen to you if I die or if I want to start a life with someone.”

“So you had to go behind my back and-”

“Would you just  _ shut up _ and  _ listen!” _

James’s mouth snapped shut so quickly that his teeth clicked.  His eyes darkened and his hands clenched into fists against his elbows; the motors in his left hand whined in protest.  

“I’m doing this to help you, James!” Emily insisted, throwing her hands in the air.  “I’m trying to make it so that I don’t have to be your handler, and no one else can use your programming to hurt you.”

Turning away, he scoffed and shook his head.  He planted his knuckles against the window frame and leaned against it, glaring out the window.

“Look, right now I’m just doing research on this telomerase stuff.  There’s something in the book about how it’ll affect your lifespan-”

The hollow thunk of his metal hand smacking against the window sill interrupted her.

“Do you already know about it?  Why is it so important to this Lukin dude?”

James just turned, leaned back against the window sill, and gave her a flat, unreadable look.  His face was doing something… complicated. Something with emotions that she didn’t know how to identify.

“What?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line.

A sickening chill spread through Emily as she realized what she’d done.  “Oh- oh god, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. You can talk. I’m so sorry. Please, you can talk.”

James scowled at the floor for a good thirty seconds before he finally spoke, and his voice was rough when he did.  “You promised. You promised me if I asked you for something, you’d listen.”

Pressing her hand to her mouth, Emily nodded and took a few unsteady steps toward the chair.  She’d just- she’d just  _ silenced  _ him with a few careless words.

Terrible responsibility.  That was the best way to describe it.  It was a terrible responsibility. And she’d failed.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why did you do it?”  After a moment, he clarified, “The book.  Why are you reading it?”

Emily stared through watery eyes at the innocuous black star stamped into scuffed leather.  “I wanted to know how to… how to get me out of your head.”

“And what I want doesn’t matter.”

His words stung - they weren’t even a question.  Emily closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands.  “It does. I swear, it does.”

“What if I  _ don’t _ want to be free of the first handler to give me the privilege of choices and opinions?”

“But what happens when-”

“What happens if the Chitauri come back?” James growled, waving a hand through the air.  He let out a tired sigh and dragged his hand through his hair. “We can’t live our lives on what-ifs and maybes, Emily.  I’m okay with the way things are, right now. I want you to respect that.”

_ Probably best if I just shut my mouth right about now. _  She nodded and leaned forward on her knees.

“I can live with what’s left of my programming.  I’m asking that you let me do that. Please give me that choice.”  James studied her for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth between Emily’s, then without another word, he pushed away from the wall and strode from the room.  His footsteps clattered up the stairs to the roof, and a few seconds later, the door shut and closed him off from the rest of the house.

Emily spent the next few minutes aimlessly poking around the books in front of her.  She walked back to the safe and locked the red book back up, then went straight back to her chair and sat heavily in it.

She’d  _ muted _ James with  _ words. _

Objectively, as a librarian, a bookworm, a research nut, Emily knew that words had power.  Just… today was the first time she’d been punched in the face with the fact. With one careless sentence spoken in a fit of frustration, she’d violated James’s trust and blatantly,  _ painfully  _ reminded them both of the power she held over him.

Someone started up the stairs a few minutes later, and Brock eventually poked his head into the library.

“Hey, Em, Jack… brought…  What’s wrong, kiddo?” He stepped into the room and crouched down next to her chair.

“I fucked up.”

His eyebrows rose.  “Okay…”

“James and I got into an argument and I told him to shut up.”

Brock closed his eyes and reached up to rub at the spot between his eyebrows with a thumb.  “Yeah, you fucked up. Did you…”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“He’s on the roof.”

“Give him a few minutes to cool down.”  Standing, Brock reached out a hand. “C’mon.  Jack just got back and he’s got this new beer he wants us to try out.  Says he picked up an IPA, special for you. Let’s get downstairs and keep him distracted until James joins us, yeah?”

***

“This,” Brock said as he reached up and gently thunked Jack in the forehead with a red labeled can, “is not  _ beer.” _

Turning a green one over in his hands, James raised an eyebrow.  His shoulders were loose and relaxed, a slight smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth as he read the label on the can.  “Brewed without barley, huh?”

_ How is he acting so goddamn normal right now?   _ Emily tried to mimic his nonchalance and hoped to whatever higher power was up there that she succeeded.

“Saw it at the store, thought you might-  _ stop that,  _ you  _ goddamn Yank-” _  Snatching the can out of Brock’s hands, Jack set it on the counter and then crossed his arms.  “The lady at Bevmo said it’s s’posed to be good.”

Emily must have had a strange look on her face, because James managed to crack a lopsided smile when he looked over at her.  She turned over the yellow can to read the brand name again, and choked out a strangled, “Glutenberg. It’s called  _ Glutenberg.” _

“I may be a country bumpkin, Miss Dixon, but I can still appreciate a good pun.”

Chuckling quietly, James walked through the kitchen and pulled four tall glasses down from the cabinet.  One by one, he popped the cans open and expertly poured each beer. He set the cans next to their corresponding glasses, then scrunched up his nose as he looked at each of them.  “Beer is kosher, right?”

“Like you even follow kosher, you big bacon addict,” Emily muttered, then reached for the IPA.  “Can’t believe you weirdos hate hops so much.”

With another half-hearted, “It isn’t  _ beer,”  _ Brock picked up the blonde ale.  Jack and James each grabbed one of the remaining glasses, then Jack raised his and peered through the crystal-clear amber liquid.

“Doesn’t look half bad.  Who wants to go first?”

Shrugging, James delicately sniffed his beer.  “Smells malty.” He took a small sip and licked his lips, then pursed them.  “Molasses and… something nutty? It’s kind of mild, but, hey. First beer I’ve had in seventy-odd years.  Tastes good to me.”

Ten minutes later saw them up on the rooftop patio with a cooler full of ‘normal’ beer and plenty of food.  James was busy lighting the grill, and Emily dropped an armful of blankets onto one of the deck chairs before cracking the cooler open.

She started transferring condiments and toppings to the small fold-up table next to the unlit fire pit, and snaked a hand out to grab a fistful of potato chips as Jack deposited the huge bowl on the table.

Jack settled into one side of the wicker loveseat with a groan, then stretched his bad leg out and worked his fingers over his lower back.  “That’s the last damn time you Yankees get me up three flights of stairs unless somethin’s bleedin’ or on fuckin’  _ fire.” _

“Shame,” James replied mildly as he straightened.  “Guess I’ll just have to throw out the coleslaw and potato salad.”

“Oh, you  _ wouldn’t.” _

“Might just eat it all myself, though.”

Brock came out onto the roof with Emily’s delivery bag hooked over his left arm and a jug of the disgusting sugary concoction that Jack called ‘tea’ in the other.  He held out his arm so James could take the bag, then set the jug down with a thunk on the table. “Fireworks should start in about two hours, Jack.”

Digging into his pocket, Brock pulled out a small black plastic case with  _ 3M Peltor _ on the lid in raised letters.  He tossed it over to Jack and the other man caught it, gave Brock a grateful smile, and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.  “I’ll let y’all know if I start havin’ trouble. Same goes for you two, y’know.”

James waved off the worry and turned to Emily.  “There’s some kindling in the box next to the fire pit.  Want to get that set up for me?”

“You sure about that?” she asked as she eyed up the big metal spark screen on top.  “I thought open fires were illegal.”

“As illegal as torrenting a Photoshop crack.”

“Everyone does it anyway, right.”  Emily rolled her eyes and knelt next to the fire pit, then lifted the spark screen and set it off to the side.  “On your head be it, buddy.”

“How do you even know what Photoshop is, let alone torrenting?”  Brock settled into place next to Jack and threw his arm over the back of the loveseat.

Pulling the ribs out of their plastic bag, James started laying them on the grill.  “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past six months? Trying to find the Nine Pieces of Eight and a one-eyed pirate to whisper in my ear?  Seriously, twenty dollars for a ticket to the pictures. I’m not made of fucking money.”

The two ex-soldiers stared blankly at him for several seconds, and Emily had to press a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.  Jack was the first to recover. “Did you… Did he just…”

“Contrary to popular belief,” James replied, poking at the sizzling ribs, “your generation did not invent the pop culture reference.”  He peeled wax paper off the hamburger patties and added them to an open spot. “Who wants a double? Got enough patties here for everyone to have two.”

Busying herself setting up a little log cabin in the center of the fire pit, Emily only listened with half an ear as the men engaged in good old-fashioned banter.  She was digging through the box of kindling for a lighter when Jack’s hand came into view holding one.

“Used to smoke,” he explained, and leaned forward to light the newspaper she’d packed into the little structure.

“You quit?”

“Too expensive when you’re on the run, and I never bothered to pick it back up after you an’ James let us move in.  Brock, get your feet off the fire ring unless you want those burned, too.”

The tiny flame from the Bic lighter finally caught, and within a minute the kindling was cheerfully crackling away.  Emily added a few of the smaller pieces of firewood and then sat back in her chair.

James was still acting unnervingly normal, but Emily could sort of see the tension his shoulders and he wouldn’t look her in the eye.  She knew from experience that James wouldn’t hold a grudge, but… she kind of wished he’d… say something. Act like he was more bothered.  Give her something to go from. This weird sort of in-between as if everything was fine but not quite, it was starting to bother  _ her _ now.

Was he just putting on an act for the other two men?   _ I’m a spy.  It used to be my job.   _ Emily rubbed at her forehead and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders against the gentle breeze brushing along the rooftop.

James came over a moment later with a platter in each hand: ribs and burger patties on one, toasted buns on the other.  He set them down in the empty space on the table and turned back to make sure the grill was turned off.

“These the gluten free buns you were tellin’ us about?” Jack asked as he leaned forward and got himself to his feet.  He grabbed a plate and started filling it with food.

Grimacing at the heap of coleslaw now oozing out of Jack’s burger, James nodded and started assembling his own.  “Yeah. I have some glutenous ones downstairs if these don’t pass the normal-people test. Do you really have to…”  He trailed off as Jack stared him down and pointedly took a bite of the messy arrangement.

The fireworks turned out to be a non-issue as far away from the barges as they were; the dull thump of the mortars was muffled and distant, and they couldn’t even hear the crackle of the airborne sparklers.  Jack’s earplugs stayed in his pocket, and while Brock ended up leaning over the edge of the roof and hollering at some kids in a comical Bronx drawl thick enough to cut with a knife, they all breathed a sigh of relief that the evening had passed in relatively calm.

Later that evening, after the temperature dropped enough that their small fire was a necessity more than a luxury, Emily snuggled deeper into her huge fleece blanket.  The two deck chairs and loveseat were arranged in a loose circle around the fire pit, and James was comfortably sprawled in the other chair with a blanket over his legs and a mug of decaf coffee in his hand.

The two soldiers quietly dozed across from them, Brock pressed up against Jack’s chest.  Emily smiled fondly at them, then looked back down at the glowing embers in front of her.

James shifted slightly, then leaned forward and pulled the spark screen off to add a few more pieces of wood.  Within a few minutes, the fire had built back up, and he reached in with his left hand to poke things around a bit.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that, it gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“Sorry,” James said, entirely unapologetically.

“You can feel it, right?”

“Mm.  Temperature, pressure.  A little texture. I can tell that it’s hot and that it’d burn my other hand, but it doesn’t hurt.”

Before she could stop herself, Emily blurted out, “I had JARVIS scan the schematics.”

James blinked at her, then looked away and sighed.  “Schematics for what?” he asked, resigned.

“For your arm.  In case you, uh… in case you want to get rid of the book.”

He stared at her for nearly a full minute before dragging his hand over his face and exhaling sharply.  “Wow. Uh. Okay.”

“I just… it’s not helping you.  Or me. And there’s not a hell of a lot in there that  _ would _ help either of us.”

“Emily…”

“Most of it’s just stuff you said you didn’t want to know.  And you don’t want me to know it, either. So…” She bit her lip for a moment.  “Let’s burn it.”

“...what?  You can’t just-”

“Why not?”  Emily hoped that she didn’t look as desperate as she felt.  “You don’t want to read it, you’ve asked me not to read it, we don’t want to risk anyone else getting their hands on it.  Let’s burn the damn thing and be done with it.”

James lifted a jittery hand and ran it through his hair, staring blankly off into space for a bit.  Finally, he took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then nodded. “Okay.” Another short pause, then “Okay, let’s do this.  Can you, uh…”

“Yeah.”  Extracting herself from her blanket, Emily padded over to the door and let herself back into the house.  It didn’t take more than a minute before she had the little red book in her hands again.

It always felt… oily, or maybe gummy, somehow.  Like it wasn’t just an innocent, inanimate object, but that it held the physical manifestation of seven decades of evil.  Her skin always stuck to the worn leather in ways that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

The hair on her arms fluffed up against the chill as she made her way back out onto the roof, and when Emily stopped next to James’s chair, he looked almost feverish.  His knuckles were white where he was gripping the arm of the chair, and Emily gently brushed her fingers over his.

“Do you want me to do it?”

After a moment, he gave her a tense nod.

“I’m going to librarian hell for this,” Emily muttered, then knelt by the fire pit.   _ Even if it’s an evil book, I’m still burning a book.   _ She slipped her hand into the scratchy silver mitt, then picked up the spark screen and lifted it away.  It clanked slightly against the patio when she set it down, and Jack woke up from the noise.

“Wha’sgoinnon?” he mumbled, then rubbed his eyes and took in the scene in front of him.

“Wait.”  James’s voice was rough, and he moved stiffly as he got to his knees next to Emily.  “I- I think I need to do this. Please.”

Brock snorted himself awake when Jack elbowed him firmly in the ribs.  Both men turned to watch as Emily handed James the book.

He swallowed, and his hands shook noticeably as he held the thing containing all his worst secrets, all the horrific things done to him.  His eyes flicked over to the fire, back to the book, then up to Emily.

Putting her hand on his shoulder - the metal one, she noticed absently - Emily nodded toward the fire.  “Go ahead, James.”

With a stuttering, jerky motion, James set the book firmly in the center of the flames.

The leather blackened, cracked, and peeled quickly, and soon the pages began to flake away as they burned.  The sweet-sharp-carbony scent of burning paper filled Emily’s nose, and she blinked away tears that were totally from the smoke irritating her eyes, no, she wasn’t crying.

She gently wrapped James in a sideways hug, holding him tighter when she felt him shaking.  After an unsteady breath, he shifted so that he was sitting on the concrete instead of kneeling, and his arm came up behind Emily to wrap around her shoulder.  He pressed his other hand against his face and sniffed wetly.

Soon, all that was left of the book was a pile of flaky embers and a few tiny scraps of charred paper that floated up and away into the night.

“C’mere,” Emily croaked, and pulled James around until they were hugging properly.  “I’m crying, you’re crying, we’re gonna fuckin’ hug like grownups.”

James laughed into her shoulder and hiccuped slightly, then took another breath, and broke.

“Aw, Jesus,” Jack muttered, and a few seconds later, Emily felt another set of arms settle around her.  Brock joined them a moment later, rubbing a hand up and down James’s back as the old soldier wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 9 through 11 will be posted 5-21-18.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mild violence and blood.

Later, after the adrenaline and panic had worn off, Emily would spend some quality time kicking herself for letting her guard down.   _You’re a tiny little brown girl,_ her mother’s voice said in her head, and it took way too much effort to keep her eyes from getting prickly.   _You’re a tiny little brown girl, you always gotta be on your toes, baby.  Someone’s always out there._

Broad daylight, public street, none of it mattered; she accepted a certain level of risk just by leaving the house each day, but…  She should have fucking known better. Bunch of white dudes roll up with a van, you _fucking run._

Don’t Be A Target 101, failing grade, retake next semester.

At least all they’d done was toss her in a room and close the door.  Well, wrists and feet stuck together with Magic Gray Tape and good _god_ this bandana tasted disgusting, but… hey.  Could be worse, right?

_Five senses._

James-in-her-head replaced her mother, and Emily almost let out a sigh of relief.

_You’ve got five senses, and one of the most amazing brains I’ve ever seen.  Situational awareness could mean the difference between life and death. Use all five of your senses so you’re less likely to miss the one thing that might save your life._

She couldn’t see a whole hell of a lot because the lights were off, and if there were any windows, they weren’t doing their jobs.   _Sun’s probably gone down._  It was late afternoon when they’d grabbed her and she had the feeling she’d been in the back of the van for at least an hour.

Lights winked on and off, seemingly at random, and she squinted at the little blinking dots for what felt like minutes until she finally figured out that they belonged to electronics or machines of some sort.  One of them looked like the hard drive light on her old laptop, flickering rapidly. _Different colors must mean different things, or maybe it’s different machines._ They did look like they were set in columns, after all, slightly different shades of green and amber occupying set amounts of vertical space.

The… room?  Emily wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled like a weird mixture of musty, cold, and plasticky.  Like the AC of one of her friend’s cars back in college after it hadn’t been run in a while. A gentle breeze brushed over her cheek, and she decided that the room must be on some sort of ventilation system.

The floor, probably concrete or some sort of weirdly textured tile, was cold under her cheek.  Fine grit rubbed into her skin, and Emily had to resist the urge to twist herself into a pretzel just to brush it away.  The dusty stuff was oily, and a quick back and forth with her face told her that the floor had a thin film of residue that the dust was (mostly) stuck to.

Something whirred faintly like a computer fan, confirming her theory that she was surrounded by electronics of some sort.  The noise was undercut with a crackle and, yep, that was something that had hard drives in it.

It was impossible to know how far away each of the blinking lights were, but her gut feeling told her they were about eye-level if she’d been standing.

 _Don’t ignore your intuition,_ Head-James said.   _Intuition is just sensory input our brains haven’t processed yet._

Well, intuition told her she was in a computer room.

Intuition also told her that her kidnappers were lazy assholes who didn’t do their research.

Wiggling around so she could hook her toes between her wrists, Emily popped her knees up to her chest and winced when her elbow stretched painfully for a brief second.  She managed to push herself into a sitting position, raised her arms above her head, and brought her wrists down against her stomach quickly as she chicken-winged her elbows.

The tape around her wrists tore with laughable ease, and it was only a matter of seconds before she’d ripped off the tape around her ankles and untied the gag that, seriously, she did _not_ want to know why it tasted like sour milk.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed once the gag was out, and scrubbed the back of her hand over her lips.   _Half-assed lazy idiots._  Anyone who’d spent _any_ time on YouTube had seen at least one ‘Break out of duct tape handcuffs’ video during a midnight boredom binge.  Seriously. What sort of kidnapping was this?

Grimacing and working her jaw around to ease out the stiffness, Emily patted her pockets to confirm that yes, she had in fact lost her phone to the two-bit amateurs that thought they could kidnap her and get away with it.  She carefully rose to a squat, stood up with a hand above her head to avoid braining herself on anything, then shuffled her way over toward what she thought was the nearest set of lights.

Some awkward fumbling around finally revealed a huge bookshelf-like thing that something in her brain helpfully told her was a server rack.  Following it around to the side, Emily quickly found a computer screen and allowed herself a victorious fist pump.

A quick skim around the edges of the monitor told her where the buttons were, and oh thank _fuck_ they had the little power symbol embossed on the plastic.  Squinting her eyes shut, Emily turned on the monitor, then slowly peeled her eyelids apart to allow her eyes to adjust to the sudden bright light.

“Of course it’s fucking Linux,” she muttered under her breath.  “No, you couldn’t pick a nice normal operating system like the rest of the planet.  You had to run _Linux._  Now, where’s the damn browser?”

It was a matter of seconds to log into her Gmail account, open up a chat window, and fire off a message to James.

_sos location unknown_

The pause before his reply was just long enough for Emily’s heart to rise in her throat and start running a marathon.

 _jfc em dont do that to me_ _  
_ _backtrace done in 30sec_

_im in a hydra server rm, have jarvis hack_

_roger. omw, sit tight, stay safe_

Footsteps, muffled through the walls, were growing louder as they approached the room.

“Not an option,” Emily mumbled, signing out and closing down the browser as quickly as she could before she turned off the monitor.  She ducked behind the server rack and covered her mouth with her hand to keep herself from panting out loud.

The door opened and light spilled into the room.  Someone - male, deep voice - swore vividly when he saw the scraps of tape and the world’s grossest bandana on the floor.  “She’s loose.”

No one answered him, but he spoke again a moment later.  “Copy that. I’ll find her.”

_He’s on the radio, then, and alone._

Emily squinted her eyes shut at the sudden flood of light from the ceiling fixtures.  She couldn’t move unless she wanted to risk being heard, but she couldn’t stay where she was unless she wanted to risk being found.

The decision was made for her fairly quickly, in any event.  The man stepped around the corner of the server rack and Emily found herself staring at six-foot-fifteen and a gajillion pounds of meathead HYDRA muscle.

For fuck’s sake, he had the damn octoskull on his _breast pocket._ What the hell happened to ‘hiding in plain sight?’

“Hi there,” Emily said brightly, and slammed her knee into his crotch as hard as she could.  When he went down with a startled grunt, she grabbed the whack-em stick from his belt and did a quick one-two-three on his head to make sure he _stayed the fuck down._

Now, she had to deal with the problem of a prime specimen of megafauna drooling on the floor at her feet, noticeably visible from the doorway.

Hooking her arms under his, Emily tried to drag the goon behind the server rack and gave up after a few pathetic attempts that did nothing but reminder her that this gym rat was literally three times her size.  She settled for rolling him sideways, had to pause to pick up one massive leg and rotate it past the rack frame, and after about a minute of silent swearing and sweating, she finally had him hidden from view.

A quick look at the goon’s belt yielded a key card clipped to it.  “Helpful,” she commented, then patted him on the cheek. “Thanks, buddy.”

She eyed up the gun secured into the holster on his hip - James had taught her how to shoot, but…

 _Are you ready to take a life?_ he asked in her head, holding out the shiny silver pistol at the range he’d trained her at.   _Are you ready to live with that?_

_I don’t know._

_Good,_ he’d said.   _Good.  I hope you never have to find out._

She closed her eyes and let out a small sigh, then pulled the holster free.  She didn’t have to actually use it, right? Only… only just in case. The bulky black holster didn’t fit well on her belt, but it was better than sticking the gun in her stupid tiny girl-pants pocket.  Seriously, this was the last damn time she shopped in the girls’ section. Boy pants from now on because come on, _pockets._

Closing the door behind her, Emily tightened her grip on the baton and looked both ways down the hall.  Empty. Good. Thanks to Meathead, they knew she was free; she’d have to be careful. The place probably had security cameras, so she’d have to move fast and find her way out before they tracked her down.

“My life is a fucking spy thriller,” Emily growled quietly as she headed to the right.  “My life is a fucking goddamn spy thriller.”

As she twirled the baton in her hand, she noticed a difference in the texture of the grip and looked down at it - oh.  Button. Button with a lightning bolt on it.

She grinned wolfishly and shifted her hand around so her thumb was resting on the button.

Footsteps approached around the corner at the end of the hall, with the heavy thump of combat boots that she’d come to recognize with three ex-soldiers in the house.  Emily looked around, opened a door that thank _god_ was a supply closet, and ducked inside it just in time.  She silently turned the little lock thingy just to be on the safe side, prayed they wouldn’t check it _and_ they wouldn’t have a key, and closed her eyes.

“Non-lethal only,” one of the guards said as they walked by Emily’s closet.  “We need her alive if we’re going to transfer the Asset’s ownership, since we can’t reset it here.”

_Oh, fuck._

Emily clamped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make any involuntary noises before the footsteps faded away.  She waited a good thirty seconds before she let herself out, just to be safe. Continuing down the hall, she peeked quickly around the corner to confirm it was clear before she made the turn.

Twenty or so paces further down the hallway, the building lurched under her as a shuddering, echoing boom tore through the air.  Emily staggered into the wall and caught herself just as the lights shut off without warning.

Five seconds after that, red emergency lights winked on in strips along the baseboards.

She wasn’t sure who got the drop on who coming around the next corner, but she literally plowed through a group of three guards.  Emily jabbed the button on the baton with her thumb, and a quick rush of evil glee went through her when the baton extended, powered up with a whine, and _crackled._

She held it up in front of her like James had shown her - _like a knife, not a laser pointer -_ and flicked her eyes back and forth between the men.

One of them ducked under the wild swing she took at his face with the baton, the second one raised up a gun and leveled it at her head, and the third one stepped behind her and caught her around the arms.

Snapping her legs up, Emily kicked out and down as hard as she could.  The agent holding her grunted in surprise and lurched forward; they crashed to the floor together.  Emily lost her grip on the baton, scrabbling frantically for it until one of the guards trapped it under a heavy, booted foot.

Bear Hug scooped her up again and pinned her against his chest, growling wordlessly in her ear.

“That’s enough!” a new voice yelled, and Emily rolled her eyes toward the voice to see a baby-faced white dude that looked like a bank teller running toward them.  “If you hurt her, the Asset won’t cooperate when we do the transfer!”

“Suck my ass!” Emily roared back, struggling against Bear Hug’s iron grip.  She kicked out at the knee of the agent that had dodged her and he went to the floor with a startled yelp when his leg folded under him.

Baby Face put a hand on Gunslinger’s arm and gave him a meaningful look.  “It’s here, and we need her _alive_ , since the halo’s destroyed and the manual was stolen _._ If you want to answer to the Heads when-”

The sharp ratatat of gunfire echoed through the hall, muffled from the distance and twists and turns in the building.  Shouting followed, then more bursts of gunfire, then silence.

The man behind Emily was breathing rapidly, his heart hammering against Emily’s back.

She took advantage of the momentary lull to violently sink her teeth into the exposed skin of the man’s wrist.  Something warm, wet, and _just plain fucking gross_ spurted into her mouth, and the guard howled in pain when she yanked sideways with her teeth.

Free from the man’s grip, Emily dove for her baton again, rolled - _over the shoulder, not the head_ \- and slammed the shock stick straight into Gunslinger’s stomach.  She pulled back and kicked Take A Knee’s other leg out from under him, then whipped him in the face with the back end of the baton.

Bear Hug reached for something on his hip and _holy shit gun._  Emily yanked her own stolen gun from its holster, gripped it as best she could without letting go of the baton, and squeezed the trigger three times.  Her eyes snapped shut as she flinched with every shot.

She didn’t expect the deafening whistle in her ears, the nauseating stench of human squishy bits, and the weird sudden off-balance sideways tilt to the world.  A quick check told her that, yep, that was an eardrum giving her a dial tone.

Emily turned, clumsy and listing to the side a bit, and Baby Face had his hands up, watching her carefully.  His mouth moved, but Emily shook her head - she couldn’t understand him over the ringing in her ears.

Bear Hug was lying on his back facing away from her, and… _oh, god, he isn’t moving.  He’s not moving. He’s- he’s not…_

Stomach flipping over, Emily reached out and pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself.  Her gun clattered to the floor, forgotten.

She noticed the dull thumps telegraphing through the floor with a sort of numb, distracted clarity, and looked up in time to see a group of agents in black tactical gear round the corner she’d been heading for.    Baby Face shouted something at them, then pointed to Emily, and…

_That’s a lot of guns._

She blinked tightly a few times, then dropped her baton and put her hands in the air.

One of the ceiling lights, the huge plastic things with fluorescent bulbs, shattered and crashed down to the floor.  Some… _thing_ dropped through, legs spread in a wide stance, one hand pressed against the floor in a picture-perfect three-point landing.

The emergency lights glinted off a bulky metal arm, pinpricks of red shining against the darkness.

_Oh, James, you dramatic asshat._

He was wearing an unfamiliar jacket, black leather with a dull sheen, and so many straps that it looked like an old-fashioned straight jacket, less one sleeve.  James slowly rose to his feet and his metal arm whined as he clenched his hand into a fist. The plates shimmied into place, and Emily had the unsettling feeling that this wasn’t James anymore, this was one hundred percent the Winter Soldier.

The Soldier whirled faster than Emily could easily track, spinning between the guards in a deadly dance.  One of the men shot up and smacked into the ceiling, leaving a body-shaped dent in the crumbly white belongs-in-a-dentist-office tile before crashing to the floor.  Another one went flying from a brutal uppercut, skidding unconscious across the floor until he was at next to Bear Hug.

Emily staggered to her feet, grabbed her shock baton, and raised it up as she stalked toward Baby Face; she had no idea who he was, but he was here, he was terrified of James, and he just- he just _looked_ like a shifty asshole.

The dull thumps and whacks had stopped by the time Emily reached Baby Face, and she flicked the zap button, then held the baton under his neck.  Turning to look at the Soldier, Emily saw him standing there with his arms at his sides and _oh that’s blood_ dripping from his hands.  He was facing away from her, panting heavily, head hanging.

“James?” she asked, her voice oddly muffled and way too loud in her head.

Footsteps behind her made her glance over her shoulder and her knees nearly gave out in relief when she saw Jack and Brock running toward her.  Each of them was carrying a stupidly massive rifle, and Jack’s eyes darkened when he saw Baby Face.

Emily called James’s name again, and he finally turned to answer her.

She took half a step back out of shock when he did; a splatter of blood had caught him across the face and his eyes were cold, flat, steely gray.  Any trace of the smiling, laughing man she’d come to know was gone.

“Hey, big guy,” Jack said calmly, and stooped to set his rifle down on the floor.  He held out his hands palm-up. “Good work. Miss Dixon’s safe now. Time to give us James back, yeah?”  He sounded like he was underwater, but Emily managed to make sense of the garbled sounds now that the ringing in her ears was finally fading.

The Soldier’s eyes flicked to Baby Face, then narrowed.  “Mission incomplete. Hostiles remaining.”

Emily stepped away from Baby Face and didn’t realize she was swaying on her feet until Jack reached out to steady her.  She gagged slightly on the stench of sweat, blood, and something coppery and sour.

With the same sort of grace Emily saw in big cat documentaries, the Soldier smoothly turned and stepped over the bodies between him and Baby Face.  He pulled a gun from _where the hell_ and calmly placed the muzzle against Baby Face’s forehead.  “Name: Tomlinson, Peter. Designation: Science and Research Oversight.  Location: Ideal Federal Savings Bank.”

It took a moment for the Soldier’s words to sink in.  “So, you were on his team,” Emily observed flatly.

“I- I don’t-”  Baby Face was decidedly pale and his eyes were starting to cross as he stared at the gun.

“James?  Soldier?”

His paralytic predatory stare turned to Emily and he blinked once.

“How many of these men are- are dead?”  Emily gave herself a mental pat on the back for being so steady through this.  She could break into hysterical, terrified laughter later. Right now, she was in the middle of an action movie and had to get to the end credits, _then_ she could curl into a ball and shiver herself to pieces.  Maybe after a long shower and two bars of soap, Jesus Criminy Christ.

“No fatalities.”

She chewed on her lip, then pointed at Bear Hug.  “I- I think I-”

“Still alive, you crazy bitch,” the man said without moving.  “Not so sure about my spleen, though.”

Emily closed her eyes and pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob of relief.

_I haven’t killed anyone._

“Your aim’s fuckin’ terrible,” Bear Hug continued, “not that I’m-”

“Shut up,” the Soldier told him mildly.

Bear Hug shut up.

Eyes shifting back to Baby Face, the Soldier leaned forward slightly and bared his teeth.  “On your fucking knees,” he snarled, and Baby Face dropped so quickly that Emily winced in sympathy for his kneecaps.

“Operational Directive Whiskey-Sierra-Five-Three: eliminate any and all threats to handler with extreme prejudice.”  The Soldier’s finger tightened on the trigger of the gun.

What little color was left in Baby Face’s face drained away.

“James.  James, look at me.”

It took almost ten seconds for the Soldier to tear his eyes away from Baby Face, and he only got up to about Emily’s nose, but, hey.  Progress.

“Tell me who he was, before.”

“He’s the team leader for the bastards that turned Winn’s brain to jelly,” Jack answered for him.  His hand tightened on Emily’s shoulder. “Tomlinson operated out of the vault that held th’ back-up brain zapper chair in DC.”

“So did you,” Baby Face shot back with a sudden burst of bravery.  “I should’ve known you’d side with _it,_ you sick fa-”

The sickening wet crunch of heavy duty plastic connecting with bone sent Baby Face sprawling to the ground, out cold.

Emily was about ready to bark a reprimand at the Soldier when she realized he hadn’t moved except to keep his gun trained on Baby Face’s head.  Brock, however, had taken several steps forward and was holding his rifle across his chest, breathing heavily and staring at Baby Face with murder in his eyes.

“Say it one more time,” he snarled.  “One more fuckin’ time.”

“We’re not killing anyone, though, right?”

The three men turned to Emily and a hint of confusion was spreading across the Soldier’s eerily impassive face.

“I- I mean, like, what about turning this over to the Avengers?  Plenty of HYDRA crapsacks here, probably enough for them to retcon a warrant.  We could tie them all up, patch up the worst of the bleeds, and GTFO before we have to do any paperwork.  And don’t forget the server room, JARVIS will want a look at it.”

Jack squinted at her.  “Who are you and what did you do with our little librarian?”

“I binge watched crime dramas in college, fuck off.”  Emily rubbed at her forehead where a headache was starting to set in.

Bear Hug snorted and, without looking, the Soldier kicked him savagely in the shoulder.

“James,” Emily repeated to get the Soldier’s attention.  “When you first found me, you told me you didn’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“They tried to hurt _you.”_

“You still have a choice.  You don’t have to kill anyone.”

The Soldier twitched away, grimaced, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.  “You start running, they’ll never let you stop.” His nose wrinkled as he squinched up his face.  “But… I- I don’t… parameters unclear.”

“Can we, like, call in the Avengers and- and get this over with so I can get somewhere that doesn’t smell like the inside of someone’s stomach?  I’m getting lightheaded.” She wasn’t actually lightheaded, not yet, but… the smell was getting a bit overwhelming. It didn’t take much to figure out that one of the men on the floor had messed himself.

Or… or maybe she was lightheaded.  Yeah. Maybe. The world tilted under her and faded for a moment, then she blinked herself back into reality leaning heavily against the Soldier’s side.

“Status?” he asked, face pinched with concern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”  Emily waved it away clumsily, flapping a hand in the air in front of her.  “Self-rescuing princess.”

Then she leaned over at the waist and barfed all over the Winter Soldier’s legs.

***

Rollins and Rumlow stayed behind to coordinate with Natalia and Iron Man for cleanup.

The cab driver gave the Asset and his handler a brief puzzled, wary look, but - and the Asset thanked whatever higher powers existed for unflappable New Yorkers - he drove them back to the brownstone in Harlem without further comment.  They’d scraped off most of Emily’s vomit, and it helped that she’d been walking home from work several hours after her last meal. Still, the Asset knew they both stank of multiple bodily fluids.

All he’d needed to say was the brownstone’s address and something about a bar fight, and the cab driver dismissed them both as just another mildly unusual fare.

It took the better part of an hour to get home, and Emily started shaking violently halfway through.  Her eyes were wide and glassy, and she kept her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Slowly, to avoid startling her, the Asset reached an arm over and pulled her in against his side.

“We’re almost home,” he said softly, and after a few seconds, Emily nodded.  “Status, scale of one to ten…?”

“Two.  Maybe a three,” she mumbled back, and… well, shit.

**protect handler**

**PROTECT HANDLER**

The Asset closed his eyes and sighed slightly, then pulled Emily closer to him and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders.  He couldn’t find any words that wouldn’t come across as empty platitudes, so… hugs. Emily was a hugger. He could do hugs.

When they finally got home, the Asset dug through his pockets and handed the driver enough money to cover double their fare.  “Sorry about the mess.”

The driver glanced at the backseat, took the money, and shrugged.  “Eh, it’s vinyl, it cleans up easy. Have a good night, bro.” And with that, he rolled down the windows, flicked on his off-duty lights, and drove away.

**protect handler**

“Okay.  Up the stairs, shoes off before we go inside.”

Emily followed the Asset numbly, fumbling with the laces of her sneakers a few times before finally getting the knots undone.  The Asset left his boots next to Emily’s sneakers, heels against the wall next to the door, out of sight and out of mind until he had the chance to clean them.

When he got the door closed and locked, the Asset stayed there with his hand against it while he pulled in a deep breath.  Turning to Emily, he nodded toward the stairs. “Go take a shower. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

He waited until he heard the water running in her bathroom upstairs before making his own way up.  The door to the master suite was closed, and when the Asset paused next to it, he heard a few off-rhythm hiccups that… Emily was crying.

**protect handler**

_No, this is really not a good time for that._

**PROTECT HANDLER**

_She needs her privacy right now.  Shut up._

It took considerable effort to pull himself away from the door and trudge into the hallway bathroom, his bathroom.  Door closed, lights on, fan on. The Asset stripped carefully, arranging his clothes on the floor tile so that he wouldn’t risk getting the remnants of combat on the bath mat.

He leaned against the shower wall, hands flat on the cold tile and hot water raining down over his neck and shoulders.  After an absurdly indulgent five minutes of that, he finally dragged himself back to the present and went through the motions of cleaning the sweat, grime, blood, and… _guilt_ off of his skin.

He would have killed for her, if she’d told him to, if she’d let him.  The Asset bumped his closed fist gently into the tile and squeezed his eyes shut against the unsettling prickling in his tear ducts.  At least now he knew where he drew the line between a peaceful life and Emily’s safety. He just… he wished he hadn’t had to learn.

His left arm protested slightly when he reached up and around to get the back of his shoulder, and the Asset gritted his teeth when one of the plates on his bicep caught on the edge of another.  The articulation _still_ wasn’t back to normal even a month after Rumlow had ripped off the outer plating; he’d have to take it apart and make sure nothing was bent.

When the water in Emily’s shower shut off, he felt as much as heard it; the water pressure fluctuated, pulsed, then settled.  Knowing he had a few minutes before Emily was done, he scooped a glob of salty-smelling paste out of a small plastic jar and proceeded to scrub his scalp mercilessly until his hair was literally squeaky clean.

Satisfied that the evidence of the fight was gone from his body, the Asset shut off the water and dried himself off with quick efficiency.  He reached automatically for the counter, and…

 _Well, fuck a duck._ He’d forgotten to grab clean clothes.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a quick, frustrated sigh, then wrapped his towel securely around his waist and walked quickly down the hall and into his room.  He bundled himself up in the softest clothes he could find, then returned his towel to the bathroom.

A trash bag from the box under the sink gave him a good way to carry his clothes downstairs to be cleaned, repaired, or burned.  The Asset left his bathroom and stopped short in the hallway when he saw Emily heading for the stairs with a near-identical bag in her own hands.

She gave him a tired, half-hearted smile and started downstairs toward the washing machine in the basement.

“Just drop it next to the machine,” the Asset told her as he followed her down.  “I’ll take care of everything later tonight.”

**protect handler**

Clothes deposited on the floor, Emily stood there just long enough for a twist of worry to form in the Asset’s chest, then she turned to him and buried her face in his chest.  His arms automatically came up around her shoulders, and he held her tight while she shook.

“How are you okay?” she asked, muffled and barely intelligible.  “How the _fuck_ are you okay right now?”  Her hands balled into fists against his collarbone.

The Asset huffed quietly.  “I’m not, not even remotely.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice compartmentalizing things.”

Sniffing wetly, Emily leaned into him a bit more.  “I- I think I need… I gotta talk to someone about this.  Can I? Is that an option?”

“Emily…”

“I could’ve killed someone.”

He didn’t answer.  He couldn’t say anything that wasn’t an empty platitude, not while he was still coming down from the mission high and readjusting to being a person instead of a weapon.

“Two inches to the left and I could’ve killed him and I think I need therapy.”

 _JARVIS would know what to do,_ the Asset reasoned.  “We can make that happen,” he promised Emily.  “I’ll ping JARVIS about it.”

Emily nodded and sniffed again.

**protect handler**

“What do you say I make some chamomile tea and some plain rice, maybe watch something on Netflix?”

He managed to get her into the living room, bundled up in a blanket, and sitting on the couch with tea in her hands before she started crying again in earnest.

The Asset-

**mission parameter: name: James**

**mission parameter: designation: Self**

James set his mug down on the (new) coffee table, then pulled Emily in to his side.  She leaned against his shoulder and hiccuped a few more times.

Pulling out his phone, James sent a quick message to JARVIS.  Almost immediately, he got a list of ten names and phone numbers.  He tapped the first number in the list, put his phone to his ear, and waited for the call to connect.

“I assume you’re affiliated with the Avengers in some way, if you have this number,” a female voice said without preamble or greeting.  “I’m Doctor Phoebe Smith, how can I help you?”

“JARVIS gave me your information, ma’am.  I’ve got a civilian with me who needs some help processing a kidnapping and… let’s call it violent escape-slash-rescue.”

“Could I have your name and the name of the patient, please?”

James hesitated, his heart rate rising fractionally, then glanced down at the mass of dense, damp curly hair pressed up against his shoulder.  “Security clearance?”

“High enough that Tony Stark keeps me on retainer.”

The pinch of tension in his neck released slightly.  “James, uh, James Barnes. Patient’s name is Emily Dixon.”

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line, then a professional and calm, “Thank you.  Where are you located?”

“Spanish Harlem.”

“Text me the address.  I can be there in an hour.”

 _Well, that’s quicker than expected._ “Thank you, ma’am.”  James hung up, then typed out the address one-handed into a new message and sent it off to Doctor Smith.

Emily’s hand, which he hadn’t noticed was wrapped around his arm, tightened slightly.  “Thanks,” she mumbled, then took a sip of tea.

James just nodded, traded his phone for his own mug of tea, and settled in to wait for a knock on the door.

***

Emily jerked awake suddenly when the dull thump of the house’s front door closing telegraphed through the walls and into her bed frame.  She sat up with a weird sort of off-balance sluggishness and groaned, rubbing at her forehead as she tried to remember what had…

Oh.

Her left ear was picking up sounds again, but the bones around it just _ached_.  So… that hadn’t been a nightmare.

Moving slowly to avoid tempting the world to tilt on its axis, Emily scooted to the edge of her bed, swung her legs out, and nearly stepped on James’s face.

He was asleep one moment and wide-eyed the next, metal hand latched around her ankle.

Emily’s heart hammered in her throat and she watched him warily for several seconds until recognition finally flooded into his eyes and he let go of her foot.

“Did… did you sleep down there?”

“Mmrfrglh,” was the eloquent response.  James scrubbed at his face and pushed himself up into a sitting position, then nearly stabbed himself in the eye with the shiny end of his pistol when he brought his other hand up.  He blinked blearily at it, let out a sigh, and set it down. “Guess that makes two of us not dealing well with what happened yesterday.”

“Doctor Smith helped.”  Emily winced inwardly at how unsteady her voice sounded.  “Thanks for calling her.”

“She’s coming back at noon for a session with each of us.”  Digging his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair, James pulled his knees up and slumped forward.

Two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs drew their attention, and soon Brock and Jack poked their heads in.

“Hey, kiddo,” Brock said, giving Emily a tired wave.  “Can we come in?”

She nodded and pointed Jack toward the chair in the corner so he could sit down.  His face was waxy and pale and he moved with the careful precision of someone in a lot of pain.  Brock perched on the arm of the chair next to his husband and rested an arm over Jack’s shoulders.  After a moment, Jack closed his eyes and leaned in to Brock’s side.

“So.”  James’s voice was rough and gravelly; Emily wouldn’t be surprised if he’d spent most of the night sleeping fitfully at best.  “That happened.”

Hugging her knees tightly, Emily squeezed her eyes shut, then pried them open again because all she could see were the three holes she’d put in another human being and the man’s pinched, pale face as he twitched at her feet.  “What do we do?”

“You two live your lives,” Jack said, not unkindly.  “Live your lives, go to work, make food, spend time with your friends.  The two of us’re gonna finish what we started and root those bastards out before they can hurt anyone else.”

“It’s time for us to start thinkin’ about movin’ on.”  Before the icy cold flood of panic could fully set into Emily’s veins, Brock kept talking.  “We’re gonna stay here for two, three more weeks, make sure you two are good on your own before we deploy.”

“How do I go to work like this?”   _How do I face my friends after what I’ve done?_  Emily’s eyes started to prickle and she pressed her face against her knees.  The bed dipped next to her and the quiet whirr of motors told her whose arm was settling over her shoulders.  “I keep thinking about how sheer dumb luck is the only reason that guy’s still alive. How… how do you do it?”

“Compartmentalizing,” James answered, echoing their earlier conversation.  He pulled her head in to rest against his neck. “But that’s not healthy, not the way I do it.  Best thing you can do is come to terms with it and make peace with it. That’s what Doctor Smith is going to help you with.”

“You don’t let yourself forget,” added Jack.  “You let yourself heal from it, but you don’t let yourself forget.  It’s a part o’ you, now. You don’t have his life on your hands, but y’ damn near did and that’s nothin’ t’ sneeze at.”

Giving her a sad smile, Brock looked down at where Jack’s fingers were laced through his own.  “It doesn’t get any easier, by the way. The fighting doesn’t hurt as much and the blood doesn’t make me sick anymore, but… it doesn’t get easier.  And honestly, I don’t think it should. What we do, what the three of us here do, we do it so good people like you don’t have to.”

“But I did.”

“You did.”  She wasn’t sure if she was relieved that none of them tried to deny what she’d done.  Jack rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Emily looked up at him, startled by his challenging tone.  “I don’t- I don’t know. I almost killed a man. I hurt people, and- and that bothers me.  A lot.” She snuffled and wiped at her nose. “Mostly I just keep thinking about how close he was to being dead.  It’s- am I- does it make me a bad person that I’m more upset by the fact that it’s fucking _luck_ that saved his life than I am about shooting him in the first place?  And who even _was_ he?”

“He was someone that was trying to hurt you,” James answered calmly.  “And you kept him from doing that.”

Her throat closed up.  “He had a family.” The words were barely intelligible, squeezed out through tears she couldn’t control.  “He had a family and-”

“Yeah, probably, but so do you.”

Clinging desperately to James, Emily shook her head.  “Not anymore.”

“Well, now, that’s just plain insulting.”  Jack was crossing his arms and scowling at her when she managed to look up.  “I don’t go chargin’ into a HYDRA snake pit for just anyone, missy.”

“Em, look at me.”

James was leaning away slightly, giving her room to breathe comfortably.  Mismatched hands rested on her shoulders, keeping her steady.

“You’re my handler, okay?  We both know what that means, now.”

She nodded, a familiar twinge of guilt making her wince when she remembered his mute anger the month before.

“You’re more than that, though.  You’re my friend. You’re my awesome little-”  Emily slugged him half-heartedly in the chest. “-okay, not little.  You’re my awesome librarian friend who managed to rescue herself with nothing more than what’s sitting right up here.”  James poked her gently in the forehead with one cold metal finger.

“Your brain is your superpower,” he told her.  “Yesterday, that saved your life. Today, it’s going to make life pretty damn miserable for you while you process everything that happened.  Shit’s going to suck, and it’s just… it won’t be fun, okay? But we’re here to help you get through this.”

“The family you choose, eh?”

James smirked and nodded.  “Something like that.” He slid off her bed and stood, then held out both hands to her.  “I feel like cooking breakfast. Pancakes? Pancakes fix everything.” The hopeful, pinched look in his eyes told Emily that the distraction was as much for him as it was for her.

“No, they don’t,” Emily grumbled half-heartedly as she let James pull her to her feet.

“No, they don’t,” he agreed, then gave her a lopsided smile.  “But they sure do make it better.”

She looked up at him for several long seconds, then glanced over at the other two men.  Finally, she sighed, and nodded, the beginnings of a smile pulling up at the corners of her mouth.  “Pancakes it is.”


	10. Chapter 10

The basement felt empty, just a handful of days after Rollins and Rumlow had left.  James leaned against the wall next to the freshly cleaned bathroom and looked at each of the spots where something was missing.

He’d offered to swap out the couch for a fold-out, but both of the other men had insisted that the air mattress on the floor was fine.  The second hand dresser he’d found on a street corner was now empty and pushed toward the door to the garage, ready to be donated as soon as he got the truck running.  He knew if he looked into the bathroom, he’d find no evidence that anyone had been using it for the past two and a half months.

James wasn’t quite sure what the feeling in his chest was.  He frowned down at his feet, shook his head, and turned away.

Stopping at his workbench, he made sure his thumbs were through the holes in the cuffs of his sleeves, then pulled on a pair of mechanic’s gloves.  The garage door swung up with a metallic creak; as annoying as the sound was, he wanted to know if it ever opened unexpectedly.

The girls from two doors down were drawing out squares for hopscotch in chalk on the sidewalk, and they waved at him while he levered up the garage door.

“Hi, Mister Morton!” one of them called over, and he returned the wave with a grin.

The youngest one - Anna, if he remembered correctly - set down her chalk and trotted over as he tugged the tarp off of his truck.  “Stay on the sidewalk where your parents can see you,” he reminded her when she started down the sloped driveway into his garage.

“Why?  It’s a stupid rule.”  Anna dropped to the ground in a huff and pulled her knees in to her chest.

**protect civilian**

“Because your parents still don’t know me very well.”  Softening the words with a smile, James pulled a piece of cardboard out from behind his toolbox and slid it under the truck.  “We haven’t been neighbors that long, and it’s always smart to be careful around strangers.”

“You’re not a stranger, you’re Mister Morton.”

James huffed quietly and shook his head.  “If your ma came looking for you and you were in someone else’s house and she couldn’t find you, how would she feel?”

Pursing her lips, Anna frowned.  “Scared, I guess.”

**protect civilian**

“So, let’s make sure your ma doesn’t get scared by staying where she can see you, okay?”

After a moment, Anna nodded and propped her chin up on her knees.  “Whatcha doin’?”

“Working on my car.”  James slid underneath the truck and pulled a drain pan with him; inside the pan were a fluid pump and several bottles of gearbox oil.  “I used to work on old trucks like this with my dad when I wasn’t that much older than you.” He pulled a wrench out of his pocket and started loosening the fill plug on the transmission, then maneuvered the drain pan into place to catch any drips.

“Wow,” Anna breathed.  “Is the truck as old as you are?”

**civilian intel: incorrect**

_Oh, for the love of…_ James chuckled.  “Not even close. This was built in 1935, and I definitely wasn’t.”

“That’s really old.”

“Yep.”  He uncapped one of the bottles of oil and wrinkled his nose at the sharp scent.  Anna didn’t say much as he slowly pumped the thick oil into the transmission; when it started dribbling out the fill hole, he capped it off, tightened the bolt back down, and wiped up the stray run of oil with a rag.

After he’d extracted himself from under the car, he popped the hood and loosened the fill cap on the top of the huge engine.

“Did you hurt your arm?”

**mission complication**

James froze, counted to five, took a deep breath, and schooled his features into nonchalance before poking his head around the hood.  “I’m sorry?”

Pointing to her left elbow, Anna tilted her head.  “You move your left arm all funny and you’re wearing sleeves in the summer.”

He swallowed thickly and leaned on the radiator.  “I, uh.” Clearing his throat, James stepped around the truck and walked to the door of the garage to lean against the frame.  “Do you know what a veteran is?”

Anna nodded.  “Daddy says they’re the people that served in the mill-tary.”

Smiling tightly, James peered up at the sky.  “I spent a lot of time in the Army, and, yeah, I hurt my arm real bad.”

“Can I see?”

“Anna!  That’s rude!” someone interrupted.

James glanced over to see Anna’s older sister walking toward them.  “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Still.”  Her sister crossed her arms and scowled down at her.  “You shouldn’t ask people stuff like that. It’s rude.”

“You shouldn’t ask _strangers_ stuff like that,” James gently corrected.  “And not every veteran will want to talk about their time in the service, either.”

Hanging her head, Anna stood up and took the hand her sister held out, then got to her feet.  “Sorry, Mister Morton.”

“It’s okay, kiddo.  I’m not mad at you.”  He walked up to the sidewalk and crouched next to her.  “I keep my arms covered all the time because of how they got hurt.  I don’t like it when people stare at me.”

“Oh!  Like Claire and the red thing on her face!”

“Anna!” her sister hissed, flushing.  She gave James an apologetic smile. “She’s got a classmate with a strawberry birthmark.  Poor girl gets teased a lot.”

“It’s sort of like that, yeah.”  Lacing his fingers together between his knees, James looked back at Anna.  “I got hurt pretty bad, but the important thing is, I’m okay now. Look!” He held up both hands and wiggled his fingers back and forth.  “My arm may look weird, but I can still use it just fine.”

“So you can work on your car,” Anna told him brightly.

“Yep.  So I can work on my car.”  Rising to his feet, James gave both girls a fond smile.  “I’ll be here for a few more hours before I leave for work.  Let me know if you girls need anything, okay?”

It was easy to lose himself in the straightforward, methodical process of repairing his truck.  He’d had to let it sit for a while during Brock’s detox, but now that the other two men had moved out, he could start in on the engine repairs he’d been planning for months.

His stomach grumbled some time later, and he glanced at the clock to see that it was almost an hour past noon.  Brushing stray wisps of hair away from his forehead with the back of one hand, James cleaned up his tools and headed for the garage door to close it up again.

He waved at the girls where they were jumping rope, then pulled the door down and threw the latches on either side.  Once the alarm system beeped to confirm it was active, he pulled his gloves off and headed upstairs.

Lunch was half a carton of hard-boiled eggs, followed by a heaping mound of greens that made him smile wistfully when he realized Rumlow wasn’t here to tease him about his rabbit food anymore.  He added one of the nutrition drinks they kept the fridge stocked with, along with the last few slices of yesterday’s loaf of rice bread.

James was just setting his dishes in the dishwasher when his phone chimed.

_You in the kitchen?_

He rolled his eyes fondly and tapped out a message back to Emily.   _Yes, I’ll make you some food.  Panini?_

The grinning emoticon he got back made him chuckle and he set to work assembling the ingredients for the Caprese recipe Emily wouldn’t admit was her favorite.

When the panini press beeped at him, James carefully nudged the hot sandwich onto a plate; he had to use his right hand unless he wanted to risk gumming up the plates of his left again.  He smiled in satisfaction when he poked the cheese and confirmed it was just the right amount of gooey. After cutting the panini in half, he added a handful of Emily’s favorite chips, then scooped up a glass of water in his other hand.

He trudged up the two flights of stairs to Emily’s little library on the top floor, pausing for a moment in the doorway when he saw her sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Sheets of poster board covered the floor in front of her, and she was carefully writing in big block letters with the fattest black pen he’d ever seen.

James blinked, and-

_Blond hair catching the sunlight, warm brown cardboard and a paintbrush in his hand.  He looks over his shoulder and smiles. “Hey, Buck, help me come up with a good slogan for the-”_

“Ohmygodgimme.”  Emily was reaching for the plate in his hand, either unaware of his momentary slip or choosing to ignore it.  Laughing, James set the glass of water down on the table.

“What’re these for?”

She’d already filled one sheet with a giant rainbow, and she was a few letters into the first word on the sheet currently in front of her.  “There’s a protest tomorrow and I want to go.”

“Okay.”  James settled into the armchair on the other side of the coffee table.  “What time does it start?” He opened up the subway schedule on his phone and started scrolling through the time tables.

Pausing mid-chew, Emily looked up at him; she quickly chewed and swallowed the rest of the mouthful, then wiped her mouth.  “I, uh… you don’t…”

“Eh, I could stand to get out of the house for something that isn’t work or the farmer’s market.  I’m getting pale enough that I swear one of these days I’m going to find a pair of fangs when I brush my teeth.”

Emily laughed and shook her head, then shrugged.  “I won’t turn down the company. We won’t need to take the subway, it’s walking distance.  It’s over at the ATLAH church that’s been putting up those horrible signs.”

“...what signs?”

In answer, Emily grabbed her phone and tapped something into Google, then passed it over to him.

“‘Jesus would stone homos,’” James read, and frowned in confusion.  “That’s still a problem? Seriously?”

“If it weren’t still a problem, I wouldn’t be going to a protest about it.”

He dragged a hand over his face and gave Emily’s phone back.  “And as much as things change, they stay the same.”

“Hey.”

James looked up and saw Emily knee-walking over to him.  She grabbed his hands and tilted her head to catch his eye.

“You sure you want to go to this?”

Looking down at their hands, James sighed, his eyebrows drawing together.  He remembered vague flashes of standing behind a pair of narrow shoulders topped with lanky blond hair, dragging a body that weighed far too little away as it struggled and flailed with righteous fury.  He remembered the satisfying sting of his busted knuckles as his fist connected with a mouth that had just spat _fairy_ at him, and tears of impotent rage that he gently wiped away from cornflower blue eyes.

He remembered waking up with his face pressed against rough blue canvas, a gun in his hand and boots on his feet.  He remembered stolen moments in hidden places, ignoring the boom of artillery as it arced overhead.

The curl of a lip as- as _someone_ smirked at him.

The glint of sunlight in golden hair.

The pink of a flush as- as.... as...

Suddenly, with painful clarify, the person in his memories resolved into a face, into an identity, into _Steve._

James swallowed thickly, glanced up at Emily, and was almost overwhelmed by the wave of relief at her patient, understanding expression.  “Sorry,” he said, his voice rough. He knew he’d zoned out for at least a few seconds. Giving her hands a squeeze, he cleared his throat.  “I- I think need to be there. I have a responsibility to be there.”

“Did you remember something?”

Her careful question, worded to give him a way to say no, made him smile awkwardly.  “Yeah. I, uh, yeah. I think I need to- I gotta think about it for a bit, though.”

 _Steve._ He’d been… something with _Steve._  He wasn’t sure what, but he’d been _something._

“Okay.”  And with that, Emily bumbled back to her signs and picked up her panini again.  “Hey, what time do you think you’ll be home from work tonight?”

James checked his phone calendar.  “Sometime around midnight probably.  I’ve got tomorrow off, though, so we’re good.”  He slid off the chair to his knees, grabbed a blank sheet, and held out a hand.  “Got any extra markers? I have an idea for a slogan.

***

Emily rolled her eyes when James pulled a jacket out of his backpack and held it out to her.  “It’s not that cold!”

“It’s cold enough you’re doing that thing where you’re pretending not to shiver,” he told her, then reached into his backpack again and pulled out a baseball hat that Emily generously referred to as ‘well-loved.’  “We’re supposed to get some wind coming in off the water this evening, so you’ll need to stay warm.”

Tucking her poster between her legs, Emily rolled her eyes and grumbled good-naturedly under her breath as she pulled the jacket on over her hoodie.  “I shouldn’t be surprised by this, you’ve always been a mother hen.”

“Guilty as charged,” James shot back with a shameless grin as he settled the baseball hat into place.  The white B wasn’t quite white anymore and the navy fabric of the hat itself had faded into something more closely resembling gray.  Emily had teased him incessantly about his indignance at his favorite team’s move to LA, but she’d bought him a Brooklyn Dodgers hat nonetheless.

Emily raised her eyebrows and fixed James with an incredulous look when she reached into her jacket pocket and found one of the large elastic bands she liked to pull her hair back with.  Shrugging, James swung his backpack onto his shoulders and settled it into place. He produced a nutrition drink from somewhere, tossed it end over end a few times, then cracked the cap loose and took a few sips.

“Seriously,” Emily said, a slight smirk pulling at her lips.  “Are you secretly a Boy Scout or something?”

“Who do you think made sure Steve got enough calories whenever we deployed?”  Pulling a face, James swallowed down more of his drink. “Besides, I couldn’t send Jim or Gabe to the quartermaster, Dum Dum didn’t have the rank to make requisitions, and the other two weren’t even American.”

Emily picked up her sign and lifted it up, then looked over her shoulder at James.  “That bad, huh?”

He gave her what he knew was a plasticky, forced smile.  “If you get me started on racism in the military, neither of us is going to enjoy the rest of the day.  Let’s just say I wasn’t popular with the brass and leave it at that.”

Emily snorted, rolled her eyes, and inserted herself into the group of chanting protesters.

It was easy to be lulled by the ebb and flow of the bodies around him, and James quickly extracted himself from the group to lean against a tree nearby.  He was well within earshot if anything happened to Emily, but he needed some time _not_ surrounded by yelling people for his shoulders to descend from where they’d risen around his ears.

Occasionally he caught glimpses of the lettering on the signs when one of the protesters turned around; _ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE - AND GAY SEX_ adorned one particularly amusing one.  Smiling to himself, James peered across the street at the silent church.  The building almost seemed to be shrinking away from them, cowering as if it were responsible for the views of the people it contained.

Counter-protesters lined the opposite street, chanting and waving just as many signs as the… could he still call them queers?  And he was reasonably sure that Emily referred to herself as an ‘ally.’ _It’s funny, we don’t look any different,_ he thought, then blinked tightly and glowered in confusion at the ground.

_We?_

**affirmative**

James pushed his glasses up his forehead and rubbed at his eyes; the leather of his gloves dragged at his eyelids slightly.   _You know something I don’t, pal?_

**affirmative**

_Smartass._

**affirmative**

Sighing, he nudged his glasses into place and scanned the crowd for threats.  He had to make sure that the Handler wasn’t going to-

_No._

The voices pressed in on him, even with some distance between himself and the protesters.  James looked left and right, reflexively scoping out the area for hiding places, exit points, traffic flow-

He gritted his teeth against the Asset rising up his head and clenched his hands into fists.  The motors in his left arm whined quietly, muffled by the sleeves of his shirt and jacket. His eyes snapped to one face, then another, then a suspicious bulge under a jacket, then-

Blond, mid-twenties.  Five and a half feet tall, ninety pounds soaking wet.  Loose jacket, looser trousers-

James blinked again and all he saw was a mass of bodies and brightly colored poster paper.

The rumble of shouted words melded and blended together until it was static, white noise in his head, pushing in, the whine of electricity, arcing blue light.

Choking on air, James turned on his heel and headed for the nearest alleyway.  He had to leave.

He had to protect the civilians.

He couldn’t let himself lose control.

Not here, not now.

He stumbled into the brick-lined alley and planted his palms against the wall at shoulder height, leaning heavily against it with his head hanging down.  Trying desperately to remember the breathing exercises Doctor Smith had shown him, he closed his eyes and counted, counted, _counted-_

_One._

_Nine._

_Seventeen._

**mission parameter: override denied**

James shuddered, gagged, and spat a glob of something that tasted terrible onto the brickwork between his feet.

_No.  I can do this._

He clenched his jaw shut so tightly his teeth creaked and started over, skipping the Numbers.

It took him several repetitions for the high-pitched whistle in his head and the electric panic in his arms to recede into something more manageable.

It took him nearly a minute after that to realize someone was talking him through the breathing exercises.  Five seconds after that realization, he recognized Emily’s voice.

She smiled at him when he turned to look at her; her shoulders were pressed against the wall a little more than an arm’s length away from him, and she had her arms loosely crossed.  Not truly defensive, but not truly comfortable either.

“Check in with me, big guy,” she prompted, and James dragged a hand over his face.  Somewhere along the way, he’d had the foresight to take his glasses off and hang them on his shirt.

“Still a little off-balance.”  He no longer reflexively braced himself for punishment at admitting weakness, but it felt awful all the same.  “Still a bit buzzy.”

Emily nodded and looked at her feet, then back up at him.  “Okay, you know the drill. Start with sight.”

“I can see bricks.  Hearing is the chanting.  Smell is…” James jerked a thumb over his shoulder.  “Something fucking died in that dumpster, I swear to god.  Taste, um.” He licked his lips and grimaced. “Tastes as bad as it smells.  Kind of oily. Touch, the bricks are old, worn smooth. They don’t catch on my gloves.”

“Good.  Need any more reps through it?”

James swallowed, stepped closer to the wall to lean his forehead against it, and drew a shaky breath.  “Give me a minute or two and I think I’ll be okay, but…”

“Too much input at the protest?”

James closed his eyes and huffed out a sigh of frustration, but allowed himself to nod.

“Okay.  There’s a park a few blocks from here.  Does walking there sound good?”

He nodded again.

Halfway to the park, Emily broke the silence that James was pretty sure only he found awkward.

“Before you tie yourself in a knot about it - don’t give me that look, I _know_ you, buddy - I turned around just as you bugged out for the alley.  Some big, tattooed asshat who probably buys all his books started catcalling me and the married ladies next to me.  Probably time for me to leave before I do something stupid.”

James stopped dead and stared at her.  He blinked, and suddenly he was looking at- at _Steve,_ with a split lip and a glare fit to scare a dybbuk, rumbled coat on his shoulders and loose tie around his neck.  He blinked again, and Emily had her head cocked to the side and a patient look on her face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and rubbed at the back of his neck.  “Seems like I’m slipping a bit, today.”

Emily nodded and gave him an encouraging smile.  “We know how to deal with that, though. We got this.”

_Steve was like this._

James knew that as Bucky, he’d spent more time taking care of his sickly friend than the other way around, but when he needed it, he could count on Steve to put his stubbornness to use to keep Bucky on track.  When Steve wanted something, he’d been almost alarmingly focused, especially if it was something that made Bucky happy.

Steve had wanted to make him happy.

What… _kind_ of…

James stumbled over that in his head for a few seconds before a rather vivid and decidedly unmistakable flash of memory painted itself across his retinas.

_Oh._

**AFFIRMATIVE**

_Shut up._

He looked down as he felt heat rising up to his face.  Emily was as much his best friend as Steve had ever been; they took care of each other, they looked out for each other, and neither of them took shit from the other.  But… he’d felt something else, once, for Steve. Something that had been confused and put off by his sudden change into a towering pinnacle of human capability, but…

He didn’t feel it for Emily.

This wasn’t how best friends felt about each other.

Pressing the heels of his hands against either side of his head, James squeezed just enough for the mild pain to ground him and pull him back to the present.

“Sorry,” he gritted out, and turned to continue walking.

Emily grabbed him by the arm to spin him around to face her.  “No. You do _not_ apologize for managing your mental health.”

Looking down at her hand, James bit his lip.  “You left the posters behind.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but judging from how Emily’s eyes softened, she knew he was trying to thank her.

“Eh.”  She waved a hand dismissively.  “Someone else can wave them around for a bit.  I went, I yelled, I did my part.”

“We weren’t even there for an hour.”

Emily gave him a flat, unamused look, then started pulling him toward the park by his arm.  “Okay, lunch time. I know you packed a picnic in that Mary Poppins bag of yours.”

“It’s not magic,” James grumbled good-naturedly, the heavy weight of his embarrassment finally starting to lift.  He shoved the churning thoughts of _Stevestevesteve_ back in his head until he could focus on the present.  He’d unpack them and deal with them properly at home later that afternoon.  “It’s just really efficient packing. You don’t lug gear all over the ass end of Europe without learning how to pack.”

“Swear to god, you’ve got the TARDIS in there or something.”

“Nope, that’s in my pocket.”  He pulled his keys out and jingled them; the ten dollars he’d spent on the blue enameled keychain was more than worth seeing Emily’s eloquent facepalm.

“Why did I ever show you Netflix,” she muttered under her breath, and pulled him over to a free patch of grass.

James unzipped his backpack and started pulling out everything he’d stuffed into it earlier in the day; Emily just shook her head and fondly rolled her eyes when he floofed out a huge checkered blanket and smoothed it out over the grass.

Water bottles were next, then bagged sandwiches labeled with either an E or a J, and he handed Emily a large folding bowl and a bag of chips.

“I still don’t know how you fit all that in there,” she commented as she popped the bowl open and shook some chips into it.

“Stubbornness, mostly.”

Nestled between rows of buildings as they were, there wasn’t much of a breeze blowing through the park, and Emily quickly shed both her jacket and her hoodie.

It was… peaceful, there, in the park.  A few children ran by, shrieking in delight and chasing after a brightly colored soccer ball.  Several other blankets dotted the grass, and James smiled down at his sandwich before he took another bite.

Emily finished her own lunch quickly, then settled in to munch on the chips while James discreetly stuffed two more sandwiches into his face.  He was halfway through his second when Emily looked up and frowned.

“Hey, isn’t that Falcon?”  She pointed across the park, and James peered after the line of her arm and-

“Who’s the blond guy with him?”

James damn near choked on his food.

**mission complication**

**MISSION COMPLICATION**

“What the _fuck_ does that beheyme think he’s _wearing?”_ he squeaked.  “Khakis and loafers, oy-yoy- _yoy.”_ Setting down his sandwich, he buried his face in his hands and sighed.  “That complete disaster of a human who thinks a baseball cap and glasses makes him invisible is Steven Fucking Rogers.”

Emily didn’t answer him at first, and James peeked out from between his fingers to see her face twisted with barely contained laughter.

“Shut _up.”_ He glared at her from under the bill of his very favorite baseball cap.

“Didn’t say a word.”

“Didn’t have to.  You were thinking it.”

Emily held up her hands in surrender, shaking her head as she chuckled.  “Wonder why he’s here. Usually my Twitter alerts put in him Prospect Park or Central Park.”

Sandwich halfway to his mouth, James stared incredulously at Emily.  “You have Twitter alerts on his location?”

“Well…”  She scratched the back of her neck and her lips twisted uncomfortably.  “I… wanted to do what I could to make sure you didn’t run into each other by accident.”

James watched Steve stoop down and pick up a frisbee that had landed in the grass near his feet, then toss it back to the kids it belonged to.  With a wave and a smile, he continued further along the path with Wilson and was....

**mission complica-**

_Got it already, thanks._

He rubbed a thumb over the wrinkle between his eyebrows and sighed.  The path that Steve and Wilson were on would bring them directly past where James and Emily were sitting.

_Time to make a choice, pal._

**mission complication?**

_Yeah, probably._

**mission parameter: name: Rogers, Steven Grant**

**mission parameter: action: avoid**

**mission parameter: action: avoid: override: “End of the line.”**

**mission parameter: action: avoid: override: Accepted**

**mission parameter: designation:**

~~**mission parameter: designation: Mission** ~~

~~**mission parameter: designation: Captain** ~~

**mission parameter: designation:**

James rubbed at his temples to dispel the mild headache building behind his eyes.

_Mission parameter: designation: Friend._

_...right?_

There was a brief silence inside his own head, then, for the first time, the programming sounded… _smug._

**mission parameter: designation: Husband**

James groaned quietly and smacked his forehead into his hand.  He wanted to deal with this at _home._  In _private._ Where he could fall apart for a bit if necessary while he processed-

“Hey, buddy, you okay?  You look like you’re having an argument with yourself.”

He cracked open an eye and squinted up at Emily.  “That’s putting it mildly.”

She shifted position slightly to block Steve and Wilson from view - and James from their view, in turn.  “They’re, uh, they’re getting closer. Do you want to move?”

Pursing his lips, James frowned down at his hands.  He set the uneaten part of his sandwich down, then pulled off his hat and ran a hand over his hair before settling the hat back in place.  “I… don’t…”

James closed his eyes, pushed his glasses up, and scrubbed at his eyes with his fingers.  The leather of his gloves pulled slightly at his eyelids and he sighed heavily.

**mission parameter: desig-**

_You’ve made your point already._

He braced himself, drew in a quick breath, and pushed himself to his feet.

Steve’s head swung his way, tracking the motion more than anything else.  When James started directly toward him, Steve reached out and blindly started whacking Wilson on the arm.

“Ow, ow- _hey,_ man, not cool!” Wilson complained, smacked Steve back, and immediately began shaking the impact out of his fingers with an even unhappier expression.

Steve pulled off his sunglasses and just… dropped them on the grass.

“Du farkirtst mir di yorn,” James muttered under his breath, resisting the urge to set his shoulders and murder-stalk over to Steve to give him a piece of his mind about _cleaning up his own damn messes for once._

When they were about twenty feet apart, something halted James in his tracks and he stood there, awkward and looking anywhere but Steve’s face for a good ten seconds before anyone did anything.

“That your friend over there?” Wilson asked, jerking a thumb toward where Emily watched intently from the blanket.  James gave him a jerky nod, and Wilson ambled away to introduce himself.

“...Buck?” Steve finally managed, and that seemed to break the spell keeping James’s feet fixed to the path.

James stepped forward, slowly at first, then quicker, reached for those huge shoulders that never should’ve had to carry the weight of the world, and dragged an unresisting Steve into a hug.  He wrapped his mismatched arms around the man, pulled him tight to his chest, and buried his face against Steve’s neck.

Slowly, Steve’s arms came up behind him, and soon he was clinging to James’s sweatshirt like a drowning man.  His shoulders started shaking, and James brought a hand up to knock off that stupid black baseball cap and thread his fingers into Steve’s hair.

He breathed him in for a moment - _Barbasol, Lucky Strikes, vibranium, turpentine, motorcycle grease_ \- and was nearly knocked off his feet by the rush of _Steve_ that filled his head.

**STEVESTEVESTEVESTEVE**

_Yeah, pal.  It’s Steve._

Laughing wetly, James pulled back slightly and blinked away the tears that were _not_ welling up in his eyes, no, not at all.  He reached up and cupped Steve’s cheek with one hand, ran his thumb over the cheekbone, and finally looked into eyes which he’d forgotten how blue they really were.

Steve’s eyelashes were clumped together and his eyes shone as he stared at James, and a faint blush spread across his cheek following the path of James’s thumb.  He let out a little laugh-hiccup noise and tried for a smile, then closed his eyes and bumped their foreheads together.

“God, you… you’re really here,” he breathed, and the air tickled at James’s nose and lips.

James gave him a smile that felt decidedly wobbly and nodded.  He tried for words but they caught halfway up; he cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again.

“Hiya, Stevie.”


	11. Chapter 11

Emily hugged her knees as she watched James walk away towards Captain America and the Falcon.  She tried to ignore the bittersweet pang of… okay, she didn’t know what to call it, but it probably wasn’t good.

_I should be happy for him._

He’d headed toward ~~Captain~~ Steve of his own free will.  The two men stood about ten feet apart, motionless, and James’s whole body sang with tension as if he was ready to bolt at any moment.  Emily turned away slightly, using the bowl of chips as an excuse to not look at whatever was making her feel all sorts of off-balance and weird.

The sandwich James had been working on, half-eaten and abandoned on his plate, sent a pang of anxiety through Emily.  She pointedly didn’t look at it, munching on chips as a way to distract herself, and almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching to her left.

Shading her eyes against the sun, Emily looked up and _holy shit that’s the Falcon._

He gave her a wide, gap-toothed smile, and nodded toward an empty spot on the blanket.  “Mind if I join you?”

Emily blinked at him a few times, then smiled back as best she could.  “Sure.” She waited for him to sit down, then stuck out a hand. “Emily Dixon.”

“Sam Wilson.  Just Sam, please, none of that bird of prey bullshit they’re still throwing around in the papers.  Nice to meet you, Emily.” Sam gave her another bright smile and looked back the way he came. “I take it you’re the one that’s been helping Barnes recover.”

“I, uh.  Yeah.” Clearing her throat, Emily reached for her water bottle.  “Though he’s doing most of that on his own, you know.”

Sam shook his head.  “Yeah, no, he’s got you.  He’s not on his own.”

_Isn’t he, though?_

“You wanna know how Rumlow and Rollins managed to convince Steve to _not_ go Category Five Hurricane Rogers on Harlem until he found you?  And, by the way-” Sam leveled a flat look at Emily. “-it ain’t lost on me that those two spent some quality time with a bottle when they found out the Winter Soldier is _Bucky_ fuckin’ _Barnes.”_

“He asked me not to tell them,” Emily mumbled defensively into her knees.

Unimpressed, Sam leaned back on his arms and crossed his legs.  “The one thing that worked when they were talkin’ Cap down was tellin’ him about you, this snarky little librarian who won’t take shit from anyone, especially Barnes.  How when HYDRA tried to kidnap you-”

Emily shuddered and curled up tighter.

“-they found you already free and kickin’ ass on your own terms.  Rumlow told Cap that if he thinks he can convince Barnes to walk away from you, he’s got another think comin’.”

“But it’s _Steve.”_ James rarely said Captain America’s name, but when he did, it was always with a strange mixture of reverence and apprehension.  Emily wasn’t sure she liked it.

There was a pause, then Sam chuckled.  “I have _never_ heard so much bitterness in three words, girl, wow.”

Emily grumbled wordlessly, and maybe if she didn’t look up at Sam or James or Steve or anyone, she wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that the world she’d finally gotten used to was being turned upside down _again._

“Look, I’m only gonna say this once, and I want you to listen, okay?  Can you look at me?”

Grudgingly, Emily lifted her head and propped her chin up on her knees so she could look Sam in the eye.  He scooted around to face her and leaned forward on his knees.

“Ever since Steve found out where you and Barnes are, it’s been ‘d’you think they’d let me live with them’ and ‘are you sure Buck’s gonna wanna see me.’”  His imitation of the thick Brooklyn drawl that Emily knew James and Steve shared made her laugh; Sam’s speech also got looser and more relaxed the longer he sat with her.  “He ain’t happy in the Tower, and I _know_ he can afford a place in Brooklyn but I do think he’d have to get Life Alert if he gon’ start spending that much money on a regular basis.”

Emily couldn’t help but snort.  She felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward in the beginnings of a smile, and across from her, Sam gave her a knowing look.

“What I’m trying to say is, Barnes ain’t goin’ nowhere, especially if he can have Steve without giving up what he’s got now.”

Letting out a sigh, Emily looked off to the side and squinted up at the scattered clouds.  “How did you know…?”

“I’m a therapist at the VA.  Body language is kind of my thing.”  Sam looked past her, then rolled his eyes.  “And they’re kissing. They’re kissing, now.”

Emily turned so quickly her neck twinged and, yep.

“This is why the PR team hates you, Cap!” Sam yelled, and the other two men broke apart laughing.  James looked over at them, gave Emily a blinding smile, and grabbed Steve’s hand before starting to walk toward them.

“You should probably listen to what he’s gonna say before you assume anything,” Sam told Emily in an undertone.  She bit down the retort that immediately sprang to mind, then pursed her lips and nodded.

James looked… Emily couldn’t put her finger on it, but ‘nervous’ was probably as good a word as any.  His eyes flicked between her, Sam, and Steve, and his shoulders had the same self-conscious hunch she thought he’d overcome in February.

“Steve,” he said, then cleared his throat.  “Steve, this is, uh. This is Emily. She’s…”  

 _Handler.  Keeper. Roommate._ Emily wasn’t sure she was ready to hear how James defined their relationship to himself.

James looked down at his feet, back up at Emily, and gave her a lopsided smile.  “She’s my best friend.”

Steve gave James a look that bordered on sappy, then crouched down next to Emily and stuck a hand out.  “Steve Rogers, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”

She blinked at him a few times, then finally had the presence of mind to shake _Captain Fucking America’s_ hand.  When she looked over at Sam, he grinned at her, then winked.

“Hey, Em, would you be okay if Steve stayed with us for a while?” James asked quietly, fidgeting slightly.

It took a few seconds for the meaning of his words to sink in, then Emily nodded several times and hoped the relief flooding through her didn’t show on her face.  “Yeah! Yeah, I- sure. Yes! Please.” She mentally kicked herself for _failing at words, dammit_ and turned to Steve.  “Would you, uh…” Emily blinked a few more times, then pointed to the empty spot on the blanket.  “Food?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr at [rivertam-art](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rivertam-art).  
> You can find other potofsoup stuff at [her tumblr](http://potofsoup.tumblr.com)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this, and thank you everyone for such an amazing first Cap RBB experience!


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